


Know Thyself, Know Thy Enemy

by YankingAwry



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Drama, First Time, M/M, Origins, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Romance, Slow Burn, just a dash. for flavour., the trope where one refuses the bang the other but refuses to let the other bang anyone else either
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25806103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YankingAwry/pseuds/YankingAwry
Summary: Together, they strip the corpses of fallen soldiers like scavengers, sending prayers of forgiveness to their respective Gods, and take what they can carry on two horses. Eilat is several weeks of hard riding away, and from there Yusuf is insistent they take a merchant ship to Aden. Nicolo soon loses all feeling in his behind and thighs. Yusuf continues to alight from his horse as if having awoken from a pleasant nap. “It’s all about rhythm,” he tells Nicolo, moving his hips to demonstrate. Nicolo contemplates killing him, for whatever good that will do.Yusuf asks Nicolo to run away with him; Nicolo agrees, with reservations. Serious reservations. If only he could remember what those were.(TEMPORARILY DISCONTINUED!!!!!)
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 502
Kudos: 593





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some people? Hyperfixate on immortal warrior husbands media? To cope with a pandemic???
> 
> This is my first time posting a fic in chapters without knowing how it ends so buckle up, you're all in this with me. The rating will turn from T to E -- after a bit of drama! But turn to E it will. With these hands I will write Yusuf sweetly topping Nicolo and/or vice versa if it is the last thing I do.

The 96th time Yusuf kills Nicolò is a half-hearted affair. Nicolò revives almost immediately. When he attempts to rise, the hilt of a giant scimitar sways level with his eyes. Sun catches on the gold leaf, temporarily blinding him. Nicolò looks down, observes torn stomach muscles creeping up and around the blade, trying to find a way to each other. He is pinned to the ground. 

Yusuf, who has been sitting on his haunches some distance away, springs to his feet. The ends of his turban flutter behind him, his breeches billow. He walks towards Nicolò, stepping over corpses, another gaudy scimitar held loose in his left hand. The two of them seem to be the last ones left on the field. Everyone else has fled or met their creator, except for the horses. A few are alive, flicking their tails to ward off flies. There are a lot of flies. 

Yusuf is standing over him. Nicolò briefly mourns the death of surprise. There was a time when he could feel wonderment, all the way to the quick of the bone; feel, all of a sudden, the presence of the Lord at his shoulder, as waves spilled white froth over jagged rocks. There is so little surprise left in the world. Yusuf leans down—Nicolò prepares to be decapitated, welcomes it—and with his right hand, heaves the scimitar out of Nicolò's gut. 

Nicolò gasps. Yusuf kneels beside him and peers into his face with concern. 

“Thank you,” Nicolò mutters. He tries staggering up to his elbows, collapses; but a quick look confirms his stomach is sewing back together in earnest. 

Yusuf’s eyebrows unfurrow, forehead smoothing out like beeswax and much the same colour. The sun has been punishing to his complexion. “You are very welcome,” he says in Genoese, not a fault in emphasis. Nicolò would speak Arabic just to shock him, were he not afraid of making a mistake. Yusuf must see something of that irritation, for his mouth twitches and his eyes change light. How any emotion could penetrate that thick beard, Nicolò knows not, but it does. Yusuf has an open, endlessly expressive face, highly unsuited to subterfuge. 

“I’m tired,” Yusuf says. He is still speaking to Nicolò, for some reason. “I pretended to be my own illegitimate son to join Salah ah-Din’s campaign. An old horse tamer nearly recognised me.” He shakes his head. “I had to discredit an elder. It didn’t feel nice.” Somewhat suited to subterfuge, then. 

Yusuf seems to be expecting a response. Nicolò has no earthly idea what to say. For his part, he keeps his eyes to the ground and shaves every so often; doesn’t stay in one battalion long enough for anyone to give him a second look. It seems to work. 

“Aren’t you tired,” Yusuf continues, “of killing?” 

“You mean, killing you?” Nicolò's fingers feel around the mud. He tries to remember who, if anyone, he ever killed before he started killing Yusuf. It’s grown into something of a full time job these past few decades. 

“Yes!” Yusuf nods, earnestly. “Don’t you ever just want to st— _ma’awad!_ ” 

He leaps back as the blade jabs through the edge of his tunic. Whip-quick, he comes down on Nicolò's shoulder with his knees, crushing Nicolò's wrist in a painful hold with both hands until the dagger drops to the ground. Nicolò grunts. His stomach is on fire from the exertion.

“Recover first?” Yusuf suggests. 

“Fine,” Nicolò concedes. “You were saying?”

“Yes. I was saying...how to say this?” A noticeable blush appears across Yusuf’s sculpted nose and high cheeks. “We could stop. If we wanted to.”

Nicolò thinks this over. They could...stop? 

“In truth,” Yusuf pauses. Heaves a mighty sigh. His breath tickles Nicolò's face. “In truth, I tire of fighting. I want to leave Jerusalem. I want to visit a faraway place. I want to set my eyes on the sea once more. Do you ever feel a longing for the sea, Nicolò? How easy it is to forget land when we gaze at the sea—”

Nicolò cuts in. “And you’re confident that your God would approve of you abandoning the cause,” the words sound more ridiculous aloud, “to live a quiet life by the sea?”

“I am,” Yusuf says simply.

“You are,” repeats Nicolò. 

“I am confident my brothers will continue to defend our lands from your people without me. It has been a long time since I have known peace or happiness, and I don’t believe Allah intended for me to live a life bereft of either.”

“Hm. Convenient.” 

Yusuf smiles wide, displaying a shockingly lovely set of teeth. Then his smile vanishes; his brows furrow once again. “So you will come with me, then?” he asks, urgently.

Vultures circle a pile of carcasses. The horses whinny, alarmed. “It is no good otherwise,” Yusuf murmurs, almost to himself, then casts around as if seeking someone’s support. Nearby, a corpse impaled on a sword makes an audible slick sound as it slides an inch deeper onto the blade. “It is no good otherwise,” he instead redirects to Nicolò. “We are the only ones in the world who know each other. Our gift—”

Our perversion, thinks Nicolò.

“—is too heavy to be borne without company.” 

“Fine,” Nicolò finds his mouth saying. “Fine, I will come with you. Now let me heal in silence.” Yusuf whoops, then claps a hand over his mouth, presumably to honor the silence. “I am in pain enough without your incessant talking.” At this, Yusuf’s face goes guilty—suspiciously so, for someone who has killed Nicolò almost a hundred times. 

It takes a moment for Nicolò to understand. “You stabbed me,” he says slowly, fixing Yusuf with a glare, “in my stomach, so you could ask me to run away with you?”

Yusuf is defensive. “You never listen to me otherwise!”


	2. Chapter 2

Nicolò and Yusuf abandon their chainmails and gauntlets. Yusuf fashions his turban into a belt somewhat grudgingly. Nicolò thinks he looks more youthful without the headpiece. Together, they strip the corpses of fallen soldiers like scavengers, sending prayers of forgiveness to their respective Gods, and take what they can carry on two horses. Eilat is several weeks of hard riding away, and from there Yusuf is insistent they take a merchant ship to Aden. Nicolò soon loses all feeling in his behind and thighs. Yusuf continues to alight from his horse as if having awoken from a pleasant nap. “It’s all about rhythm,” he tells Nicolò, moving his hips to demonstrate. Nicolò contemplates killing him, for whatever good that will do. 

Most villages have a tiny trading outpost. They exchange their loot for coins and nondescript clothes in small portions at a time. Yusuf handles the bargaining, to Nicolò's relief. Inwardly he is confident of his Arabic, but he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself. Yusuf, on the other hand, has no such compunctions. He flirts shamelessly with both the shopkeepers and their wives. They titter and coo and bless him with a thousand children to carry on his bloodline. Young maidens blush under their headscarves when he smiles at them, and old mothers look approvingly when he spends ten minutes in conversation with their baby. Nicolò sulks in the background mostly, fielding stares from villagers that range from interested to hostile. 

However much he flirts, Yusuf is a pleasant travelling companion. Nicolò doesn’t have anything to compare against, having been alone for so long, but finds Yusuf capable of holding interesting conversations in Genoese and being comfortable with long stretches of silence. He is appreciative of Nicolò's stew, prepares and cleans camp with neat, military precision, and importantly, knows his way around the area. 

He is not above making fun at Nicolò's expense, but Nicolò is learning to take it in stride. Once, when they stop by a stream to rest and, in Yusuf’s case, perform salat, he implores Nicolò to rub some dirt into his face and look less like a “luminous farang angel” before they go into town. Nicolò retorts that if they really want to avoid attention, they should sell the twin scimitars hanging showily by Yusuf’s belt. Yusuf splashes water at Nicolò. Most of it falls on the horse, who lifts its head and neighs loudly. “Listen to your horse,” Nicolò counsels, ducking Yusuf’s second attempt. 

They can’t always get lucky. Three days outside Eilat, they are nearly out of coin. Yusuf hands over his second-favourite scimitar to a merchant who, Nicolò must admit, has been driving an expert bargain. It is the mournful look in Yusuf’s eye, the way he tries to hide it by busying himself with packing the new supplies, that does it. There are three days to Eilat, and Nicolò would prefer not to endure any soliloquies about lost loves. He offers the merchant his longsword, and the merchant calls for weighing scales and a magnifying glass to inspect the detail on the black leather sheath. No, Nicolò tells the disappointed merchant, this is the last of their wares. 

He mounts his horse and returns the scimitar to Yusuf, who exclaims _Mashallah!_ and grips his arm, looking so radiant with gratitude that Nicolò's mouth runs dry. His mouth is still dry when he leans out of his saddle to yank an arrow aimed at Yusuf’s back out of the air, the motion nearly wrenching his arm clean from the socket. The merchant has sent his enforcers after them. They’re outnumbered five to two, which means they make an easy escape. Yusuf is deeply apologetic afterwards. 

“A sword is a sword.” Nicolò shrugs. “There will be many others.” 

Yusuf snorts, returns to lovingly polishing his second-favourite scimitar with an oilcloth. Thanks to the merchant, it has seen action after a long hiatus. 

“Perhaps you should’ve called the merchant ‘brother’, several times. In dialect. At the end of every sentence. That would’ve helped.” 

“You mock my bargaining style,” Yusuf says, “but one has to be friendly and personable. It is the way of the world.”

“Is it,” says Nicolò. 

“It is. If we had it your way, we’d be asking shopkeepers to look us in the eye and test the mettle of our soul.” Nicolò looks blankly at him. “It is a joke! You said you used to be a priest?”

“Yes.”

“The burning gaze of righteousness has not left.” 

Nicolò bristles. “I have no such gaze. That is just my face.”

“Yes,” Yusuf agrees, eyebrows waggling in amusement. “That is your face.” He pulls his features into ‘Nicolò’, which looks like Yusuf with bad gas. “This is your face when you are happy. This is your face when you are sad. This is your face when you are—”

It goes on like this. Nicolò calls him a goat fucker in the most formal Genoese he knows. Yusuf does not seem in the least undeterred. 

Later that night, after Yusuf has put away his prayer mat and skullcap, and they have settled to sleep on a mossy carpet under some juniper trees, Nicolò says, “You once called me an angel. I didn’t think you bore so much ill-will towards my face.”

Yusuf doesn’t reply, though Nicolò hears him stir. When he finally turns, Yusuf is looking at him with a curious expression. His black eyes glitter in the moonlight. Nicolò, so drawn by this face, does not notice Yusuf’s hand until it is resting, warm and heavy, on his own. 

The sound of heartbeat swells in his ears. Nicolò snatches his hand away, turning his back on Yusuf. He closes his eyes, tries to breathe quietly. 

In the morning, events proceed as usual. Yusuf does his salat, cleans up camp; Nicolò refills their waterskins, pries irritants out the underside of their horses’ hooves. Through the day, Yusuf is exceedingly well-mannered to him and uncharacteristically ill-tempered to everyone else: the horses, villagers, passing travellers, the trader who takes two helmets for more bread. They are nearly at the port of Eilat, and need to hoard as much as they can for the sea journey. Matters reach the point where Nicolò has to take charge of the bargaining. 

Yusuf is waiting by the horses with a stormy brow. He bursts when he sees Nicolò return: “She said half a loaf! It was unacceptable! I couldn’t—” and stops when Nicolò puts a hand on his shoulder. Yusuf looks down at the hand, and then back up at Nicolò's face.

Nicolò says, awkwardly, “These things happen. Do not allow it to unduly burden your mind, Yusuf al-Kaysani.” 

Yusuf is quiet for a moment; his expression clears. He nods. “That is the first time I’ve heard you say my name,” he says, mounting his horse. Then, with a small smirk: “You should practise your pronunciation.” Nicolò sneers. 

At nightfall, they make camp in silence. Nicolò sits against a fallen tree trunk and watches Yusuf perform salat. He unrolls the prayer mat and, facing qibla, bends forward, lies prostate, sits up, all the while saying his prayers quietly. Yusuf told Nicolò they would pass Mecca on their voyage to Aden; he has been twice before. Nicolò, of course, would never be admitted inside. 

Nicolò read a translated copy of the Quran one afternoon in a hidden alcove at his monastery in Genoa, snapping the text shut every time footsteps passed by. It was not heresy, it was research. He had to know his enemy. He found it more similar to the Bible than he had believed. Some parables were virtually identical. There was a wide gulf in the imagination of God’s role and how directly He intervenes in people’s lives; but in any case, Nicolò is not so naive to think crusades are fought solely on the ethical and moral implications of different conceptions of God, as opposed to, say, competing interests for land and power. 

The story of Sodom and Gomorrah is common to both texts. What Yusuf proposed to do last night was a sin. Surely he knows, Nicolò thinks, watching Yusuf roll up his prayer mat and place it back in their canvas bag. Nicolò's armies looked the other way at whatever business men did between themselves at night. They needed all the soldiers they could get, perverts or not. Nicolò did not judge. He only took the deathbed confessions. To judge is, strictly speaking, Christ’s line of expertise. 

Yusuf is now petting the flank of his horse, whispering nonsense into its ear. Nicolò watches Yusuf’s hand smooth up and down its leg, and his hold on reality falters. Perhaps Yusuf meant nothing by that hand. He is, by nature, a tactile and affectionate man. His energetic back slaps have caused near-altercations with many strangers. Yes, Nicolò decides. He has misinterpreted things. 

Yusuf looks over at him. Their eyes meet, and the remembered heat of last night sweeps through Nicolò. Yusuf hurriedly looks away. Nicolò abandons his hypothesis.

“Are you ready for the sea?” Nicolò asks when they’re stretched out on the ground, farther apart than they usually are. 

“Ready,” Yusuf half-says, half-yawns. He turns away from Nicolò. “Inshallah,” his voice comes, faint, “the sea is ready for us.”


	3. Chapter 3

Nicolò climbs down the ladder to the lower deck with one hand, the other hand holding four bottles of wine to his chest. He’s mobbed as soon as his feet touch the boards, but manages to save one; he makes his way to the centre of the common space where Yusuf is playing shatranj with a travelling barber from the Chola empire on top of a barrel. 

“Your Sheikh cannot outrun death, Yusuf,” says Vijayendra, in soft, accented Farsi. He and Nicolò have been practising the language with each other for a week now. Vijayendra is a small man, shorter than Nicolò and darker than Yusuf, with calf-like eyes, smooth cheeks, and a dimpled chin. Of all the men and women aboard the ship, he alone is unimpressed with Yusuf’s charisma and physique. Nicolò likes Vijayendra. 

“He has before, and he can again,” replies Yusuf, scanning the checkered board with an intense frown. He has picked up Farsi like a second skin. Nicolò was hoping for an advantage, since Farsi is closer to Genoese in its rules, but alas; it borrows more words from Arabic. 

“There’s no shame in losing. We originated the game.” 

“That was the Gupta empire,” Yusuf says, finally picking up a sarbaz, frown clearing. The piece unsticks from the board; resin, borrowed from the Mongol arms trader. The ship lurches too often, and they don’t trust each other to reset the board without cheating. “A bit before your time. Seven centuries or so.” 

Standing next to Yusuf is Severino from the upper deck, who lets out a bark of laughter although nothing funny has been said. He looks admiringly at Yusuf. Vijayendra shrugs. “We played it before you Arabs, that’s the important thing. Don’t forget it.”

“It is hard to forget when I am so constantly reminded.” 

Severino is the son of an Italian aristocrat, tall and weedy with over-plump lips and shining yellow hair. He is pursuing knowledge by spending his father’s money on voyages and erotic manuscripts. He is also from Genoa, of all the rotten luck. Nicolò has been tight-lipped in the face of questioning, saying he’s from “the countryside” as vaguely as he can, but the man is impossible to shake. He is enchanted with the idea of Yusuf and Nicolò being mercenaries for hire, and has tried to offer them a lot of gold. Nicolò does not like Severino. 

Yusuf takes Vijayendra’s sarbaz with his and smiles. Nicolò assesses the board. Vijayendra’s wazir suddenly looks vulnerable. It is Vijayendra’s turn to frown. 

“I will be shaved by your hand before dawn,” Yusuf declares. Vijayendra’s shaves are a sought-after commodity; he barters them rarely, and bets them more rarely still. Yusuf then notices Nicolò, and brightens. “Nicolò, you’re back!”

Nicolò hands him the bottle of wine. “Crew found another crate in the cargo hold,” he says, to general cheer. They all take a swig. Nicolò initially declines, and then yanks the bottle from Yusuf’s hand when Severino comments in reedy Farsi about how confining religion is.

“Our Nicolò _was_ a priest,” Yusuf corrects Severino. Nicolò takes two large gulps. “Besides, a visit to any tavern will remind you of all the good reasons why alcohol is haram.” 

“And if that doesn’t convince you,” Vijayendra says, “follow the men at the tavern home and talk to their wives. They will have many reasons to share, believe me.” 

Severino looks startled that anyone should disagree with him. Nicolò says haughtily, “The Church allows priests to drink. Only Yusuf’s God would disapprove of what he is doing.”

“Let’s not begin, habibi. If freshwater is scarce, wine becomes a necessity. And at least my priests get to marry.” He passes the bottle to Vijayendra, who looks at Nicolò with deep interest. 

“Your priests are celibate?” 

“Yes,” Nicolò says shortly, shooting Yusuf a look. Yusuf winks. The ship creaks to the left just then, and he stumbles into Nicolò. Not meaning to, Nicolò inhales the distinct, musky smell of his sweat. Yusuf steps back with an apology. Severino is pouting, no doubt wishing the ship would creak to the right. 

“For life?” Vijayendra presses, as if it is an unheard-of notion. 

“Yes,” Nicolò says. He is sharply aware of Yusuf’s body for some reason; it’s like a rope has been rigged from him to Yusuf, tempting him to look whenever Yusuf makes a movement. “Those are the vows we take to devoid our heads of noise, and hear God better. I don’t think this is a, a,” he searches for the right word, “controversial idea. We all have a limited capacity to listen to the world. We can’t spend it listening to everyone.”

“So love, to you, makes unwanted ‘noise’?” asks Yusuf. He seems to disagree.

“Love-making makes a lot of noise,” Vijayendra points out. Yusuf, predictably, slaps him on the back. 

“Hush, you two! Nicolò is onto something here!” Severino is excited. “Jelaluddin Rumi has a recurring theme in his poetry about emptying the ego—hollowing yourself out, creating a space for deep love. And of course, for men of religion, God is love.” Severino, Nicolò thinks, reminds everyone far too often that he can read. Vijayendra concludes from all this talk about creating space and deep love that Rumi was generously proportioned; he gets back slapped some more. 

Night falls, lanterns are lit. Vijayendra ends up winning the game through unforced errors. Yusuf laments. They get drunk. Severino and Vijayendra begin an earnest discussion on the decentralised system of administration pioneered by the Cholas; Severino thinks it will lead to madness if peasants start making decisions, Vijayendra knows it will not, because the Cholas are doing perfectly fine, thank you very much. Severino pleads with anyone who has read Plato to defend him. Yusuf and Nicolò say they haven’t, bowing out and leaving the two to it. 

“I think you lie,” says Yusuf cannily. He’s looking at Nicolò sideways, like a crow. 

“About?” Nicolò moves a piece. They have reset the shatranj board and are playing a short game with half the pieces. He is suddenly afraid of what Yusuf might say. 

“I used to dream about your past life, after we first killed each other,” Yusuf says, picking at the resin from underneath his alfil. This comes as a surprise to Nicolò. He just dreamed about Yusuf killing him in increasingly inventive ways. “I made drawings, wrote notes, thinking it would somehow help me defeat you.” He puts down the piece, slips a small book out of his tunic that Nicolò has never seen once, not in five weeks of travel together. He flips to a page, hands the book to Nicolò. 

It is a light, delicate thing. Brown leather binds together many thin sheets of vellum paper. The page Yusuf turned to has a charcoal drawing of Nicolò as a much younger man. He is perched inside his favourite alcove, knees drawn up, reading a book. Yusuf has captured, somehow, the complex effect of light from a nearby window on his hair and face. Nicolò smiles faintly. The title ‘REPUBLIC’ is inscribed in Latin on the cover of the book. 

He wonders at how Yusuf has picked up so many skills and languages in just one lifetime, even if a slightly extended one. Abruptly, he wishes he could be as attentive to the world as Yusuf is. “I was a boy, there were a lot of words, most of them long. I don’t remember any of it.” Nicolò hands the book back. A strong intuition tells him not to ask to see the rest of the pages. 

Yusuf closes the book with care, tucks it back into his tunic fold. Picks up the shatranj piece again, resumes fiddling with it. He says, “You always looked so unhappy. I used to imagine you were forced into study by your parents.”

Nicolò snorts. “I was unhappy because my parents did not force me into anything.” At Yusuf’s puzzled face, he checks that Severino is not listening, and then elaborates in Genoese, “I ran away to the abbey, in a kind of rebellion, and. Let us say, my parents did not feel my loss too keenly. My brother was emerging as one of Genoa’s brightest statesmen. I fell to the side.” 

Yusuf looks sympathetic. “It is hard to have our efforts go unnoticed by the ones we make them for.” The resin finally comes off the piece, and Yusuf promptly pops it into his mouth. “Did you ever meet your parents again, before—”

“What are you doing,” Nicolò interrupts, horrified.

“What, this?” Yusuf points to his mouth. “It’s fun.” He grins, teeth flashing as he chews. “Do you want to try?” He picks up another shatranj piece. 

“No!” Nicolò says. This is worse than the time Yusuf aimed fig pits at Nicolò's head. “You could catch a sickness! Think of where that resin has been! Think!” He slaps the back of his hand to the palm for emphasis, hoping it gets through Yusuf’s skull. Nicolò has seen it. It is a very thick skull.

“I won’t die,” Yusuf says, needlessly tempting fate. He seems to be enjoying Nicolò's reaction. Yusuf must have been the sole child in his family. Only that would explain the sheer arrogance with which he approaches everything he does. 

More wine arrives below deck. They all drink deeply. Vijayendra is beginning to doze. Severino is draped over Yusuf’s side, talking loudly about philosophy. Yusuf keeps staring at Nicolò's lips, starting guiltily whenever he is caught; then forgets, then does it again. It is overly warm. Nicolò needs air. 

He climbs up the ladder to the main deck. All is quiet except for two crewmen arguing with each other. Nicolò goes to the side of the ship and leans over. Cold sea spray stings his face. He considers the black waters, glittering in the moonlight. Black and glittering, like Yusuf’s eyes. He shakes his head, trying to clear the perverted thoughts taking hold. Yusuf’s thighs flexing beneath his breeches as he urges his horse faster. Yusuf bathing in a stream, water sluicing down his back, forming rivulets in the folds of his shoulder muscles. Yusuf turning in sleep, tunic riding up his trim waist, revealing a soft stomach shifting with every breath. 

Yusuf taking out a small blade and holding it to Nicolò's neck, vowing death. That happened too; did Nicolò forget? Yusuf running the flat of the blade along Nicolò's lips, then drawing blood with the edge. No. Wait, that didn’t happen— 

There is a faint splash. Nicolò's eyes focus in the dark. He can make out a few small boats coming up quietly behind the stern of the ship. Shadowy figures move. Something catches the moonlight, glints; steel. A hand comes down on his shoulder. He turns, sees a crewman, identifiable by the brown garb, but otherwise completely unfamiliar. He is pale-skinned like Nicolò, with a blocky face, slicked back hair, and a scar running along his lip. “Get back to your quarters,” the man says, in terrible Farsi. Nicolò notices the second crewman is nowhere to be seen. He thinks fast, staggers into the man, acting woozy and limp. The man pushes Nicolò off in disgust.

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” he says, hiccuping for good measure. He climbs down to the lower deck quickly, blood and adrenaline surging to his head, making him clear-eyed. There is no sign of Yusuf. He shakes Vijayendra awake. 

Vijayendra cracks open an eye irritably. Nicolò asks, “Where did Yusuf go?” 

“They went to Severino’s quarters to get more wine.” 

“Vijay, I need you to help me find Yusuf. I think we’re in danger.” Vijayendra opens both eyes. 


	4. Chapter 4

They travel down to the orlop deck, passing by snoring passengers and nearly tripping over a foot or two in the shadows. Nicolò stops at where his and Yusuf’s bedrolls are folded against the wall, picking out the two scimitars and dagger from their canvas bag. He tests the heft of Yusuf’s second-favourite one. With his longsword gone, he’ll have to make do. The dagger is a trusted friend; that he tucks into his sleeve. 

“Do you know how to fight?” 

Vijayendra, whose eyes have been widening with every weapon Nicolò has pulled out of the bag, admits, “No.” 

With the scimitar, Nicolò swings at one of the lowered beams on the ceiling. Vijayendra yelps. Nicolò hacks away until it comes loose and clatters to the ground. Vijayendra picks it up, letting out a quiet _oof_ —it’s heavier than it looks. “When in doubt,” Nicolò instructs, “aim for the groin.” 

They run up three sets of winding stairs and down narrow corridors to the main quarters; it takes longer this way, but is safer than going from the outside, where Nicolò imagines more unfamiliar crewmen will be patrolling the main deck. They reach a row of ten identical, handsomely-appointed doors. Which door is Yusuf behind? Vijayendra moves down the hall to the front-facing entrance to keep a lookout, hugging the wooden beam to his chest. 

“Just knock on every door.”

“And if it creates a panic? If we alert the thugs earlier than we intend to, innocent blood could be shed.”

“Keyhole, then! Hurry!” 

Nicolò puts his eye to the first one, sending a pre-emptive prayer to God: but it is only someone sleeping. The next keyhole, another sleeping passenger. Behind the next door are a man and woman having relations so loudly that Nicolò doesn’t even need the keyhole, just quickly moves on. Sleeping passenger. More sleeping passengers. A man and _two_ women having relations, mio Dio. 

He looks through the keyhole of the eighth door and his breath catches. There’s Yusuf, sitting on a bed, his bare chest aglow with lantern light. On his face is an indulgent smile. He is looking down at Severino, who is on his knees between Yusuf’s thighs. 

Nicolò pulls away from the door sharply, as he would avoid the swinging arc of a sword. A moment later, Vijayendra is beside him, searching his face. 

He must find something in it, for he asks Nicolò, very carefully, “Is Yusuf inside with Severino?” 

Nicolò nods, breathing hard; his chest is compressing into a small, hardened knot. Vijayendra curses, shoulders past Nicolò and pounds the heavy door with his fist. “Severino! Yusuf!” 

They hear Severino squeak, “One minute!” They wait. Vijayendra avoids Nicolò's eyes. Nicolò is grateful. 

When Severino opens the door and sees Nicolò standing with a scimitar in each hand, he squeaks again. Nicolò curls his lip. Yusuf appears behind Severino, tunic askew, breeches loose around the hips, looking flushed and confused. Adrenaline surges through Nicolò once more. He wants to run Yusuf through with his old longsword; cut him open like a nectarine, from shoulder to hip. 

“Here,” he says, handing Yusuf his favourite scimitar hilt-first. Severino ducks out of the way. “We’ve been taken over by pirates.” 

Yusuf raises an eyebrow. He takes the scimitar with one hand, tightens his breeches with the other, seemingly unselfconscious. “Why hasn’t anyone sounded the alarm?” 

“They’ve been quiet,” says Vijayendra. “Maybe they want to avoid bloodshed. Maybe numbers are not on their side.” 

“Would you have heard the alarm, I wonder,” says Nicolò coldly, “if someone had sounded it.” 

Silence drops between the four of them like a dead body. Yusuf stares at Nicolò in disbelief; then his mouth flattens into a hard, angry line. “Vijayendra, Severino, stay here, barricade the door,” he says. “Nicolò and I will come find you when this is over.” 

“Are you intoxicated?” Nicolò asks.

“No,” Yusuf growls. 

“I don’t believe you. Forget it, I’ll do this alone.” 

“Ya rab!” Yusuf throws his hands into the air, and disappears into Severino’s room. He returns a moment later with a water basin filled to the brim and upends it over himself. 

Nicolò doesn’t move, gets hit with the ricocheting water; Severino and Vijayendra both back away several paces, frightened. A round-faced man with a sleeping cap peeks out of door number five, assesses the complexity of the ongoing situation, and hastily shuts the door again. 

“Are you satisfied, Nicolò?” Yusuf asks, glaring, hair plastered to his forehead, making a puddle on the floor. He shakes water off his scimitar. “Shall I jump into the sea, if it pleases you?” 

“There’s no need,” Nicolò says. “I am satisfied.” 

The plan is simple. Nicolò will take the right, since that is his favoured side. Yusuf will take the left, since he is proficient with both hands. They will try not to die. Unlike the battlefield, where the area of action is large, and fevered soldiers unknown to each other may doubt the evidence of their eyes, they are dealing with a contained space and passengers who have known them for weeks. 

They crouch low on the quarter deck, from where they have a vantage point of the main deck. Yusuf raises his head for an instant over the rails, then drops down quickly, nodding at Nicolò. It is as they suspected. 

“Norsemen,” he says, disgusted. “What are they doing on this side of the sea?”

“How many did you count?”

“Six. There may be more, what do you think?” Yusuf’s hair is drying fast; a few curls lift off his forehead in the night breeze. The image of Yusuf sitting on a bed without his tunic presents itself to the mind’s eye. A powerful chest, broad as a barrel, covered in dark tight curls that thin as they proceed down Yusuf’s stomach. Stop this, Nicolò. Concentrate. Concentrate on the way Yusuf smiled down at Severino; the elusive point at which the smile turned illicit. How did his face, keeping the same essential features, change so? 

Nicolò blinks; responds, “More. They would’ve sent a few to the bridge deck first. If you have the captain, you have the ship.” Still crouching, he moves towards the bridge deck. Yusuf tugs him back. 

“Nicolò,” he says, in a hard voice. “I pray that God is with us. But when this fight is over, you and I will speak.” 

“Yes.” Now that the fog of rage has cleared from his head, he has trouble meeting Yusuf’s eyes. “We will speak.” 

There are two pirates guarding the door of the captain’s cabin. Nicolò comes up behind one and clocks him on the head with the heavy hilt; he goes down with a grunt. The other spins around, brandishing his cutlass. Yusuf deftly slips his blade between the grip of the cutlass and its bridge, and jerks. It goes spinning in the air; Nicolò catches it mid-flight with his free hand and points both swords at the pirate’s neck, then motions to the floor. The pirate lowers himself to his knees looking mutinous. 

“Make one sound,” Yusuf says pleasantly in Farsi, “and you will learn the full range of sounds your body is capable of making. Do you understand me?” 

Nicolò smiles. Fear springs bright in the pirate’s eyes, as it should, and he nods.

Yusuf asks, “How many prisoners are inside this room?” 

“Two. The captain and his first mate.”

“Anyone else?” The pirate shakes his head emphatically. Nicolò meets Yusuf’s eyes, tilts his head ever so slightly down. 

Yusuf moves to the door, places a hand on the knob; then, without warning, kicks it open and drops to the ground. Nicolò flings his dagger, and it sinks deep in the shoulder of the third pirate lying in wait behind the door. He drops his axe with an agonised yell. Nicolò leaps into the room, kicking the axe away from the pirate’s reach and knocking him out. He looks back at Yusuf, exhilarated; Yusuf hesitates, then offers a small smile. 

His hesitation overwhelms Nicolò with shame. He has been a fool of the first degree, he thinks; no, worse, because fools blunder unknowingly. He has been a knowingly deceitful and hypocritical friend.

They tie the three up securely, releasing the captain and the first mate who rub their wrists with dazed gratitude. Nicolò extracts his dagger; Yusuf passes him a cloth to wipe it down on, then passes him some more to bind the pirate’s shoulder. 

“Norsemen!” the captain wails to no one in particular. “On my ship!”

“More likely than you think,” Yusuf says under his breath. Out loud, he asks: “How can we surprise them?” 

“We can’t,” says the first mate. He spits at the foot of one of the pirates; they look at him venomously, mouths gagged. “We have to storm them from the front, it’s the only way.” 

Yusuf clucks his tongue, dissatisfied. “We’ve had the element of surprise this far, and it has served us well. Why lose it?” 

Nicolò has a thought. “How well can you climb?” 

Yusuf turns to him with a confused but trusting expression. “I grew up in a courtyard filled with sixty-foot coconut trees.”


	5. Chapter 5

By God’s grace, the moon has retreated behind the clouds. They have climbed the gridded ratlines unobserved, feet and hands clinging to rope. Now, near the highest point of the ship, Yusuf and Nicolò recover their breath. 

Yusuf lets out a low whistle. Nicolò follows his gaze, and agrees with the assessment. The sea is spread out before them like a vast black sheet, joined seamlessly with the night sky. Stars cast their dim light onto plumes of white foam that curl and scatter. There is no sound of man here; only the high wind and the roar of waves. Nicolò closes his eyes, slows his breathing, lets himself feel insignificant. It is a wonderful feeling. He senses the Lord once more, at his shoulder.

“Nicolò.” His eyes fly open; but it is only Yusuf, gesturing towards the footropes closest to the main mast. 

“Shall I go first?” Nicolò asks, swaying. Yusuf makes a face, the wind whipping his curly hair about his head. “Fine, fine, you go.” 

Yusuf holds out his hand. “Your sword?” 

“Yours, you mean.” Nicolò hands it over. 

Yusuf leans carefully against the boom, wraps the sword around his waist the way women swaddle babies and secure them around their back. “That depends,” he says, tightening the bands, suddenly serious. “You took it from me as a brother. If you are my brother, what is mine is yours.”

Nicolò's next exhale comes out harsh. 

Yusuf continues, now turning to look him in the eye. “Are you still my brother?” 

“I am.” The wind carries the words away. Nicolò tries again, louder. “I am. I am!” 

“All right, I heard you.” Yusuf smiles, shakes his head like he can’t help it. “You should have seen your face in that cabin.” He ventures his legs around the giant mast pole one at a time, crossing them; then swings his whole body with a grunt, until he is face to face with Nicolò. “Like a kitten who got her tail cut.”

“Yusuf, do you.” Nicolò stops. This is difficult. He has done this so many times before at confession; why do the words stick in his throat now? “Am I forgiven.”

“We are still going to talk,” Yusuf reminds him with a stern look; then he softens. “But I don’t have the heart to be angry with you.” 

Nicolò feels hopeful. He peers down at the main deck, then up at Yusuf. “Yallah?”

Yusuf nods, eyes twinkling. “Yallah.” And with that, he uncrosses his legs, and slides down with a yell to fight some pirates. 

Nicolò follows, hands collecting splinters; he jumps about ten feet from the ground and satisfyingly onto a pirate’s head. One down. Yusuf is taking on four at once, swinging both swords with vengeance and making men leap back in alarm; he looks over at Nicolò, winks, throws him one. Nicolò catches the sword neatly, and without turning, flips it over his shoulder. The pirate who was trying to club him from behind groans, collapses to the ground. Nicolò twists and pulls the blade out of his arm. “The moon’s out again,” he explains helpfully, to the other pirates advancing on him. “Always be mindful of your shadow.” 

Nicolò gravitates to Yusuf’s right side; they move, functioning distinctly but in harmony, like lute melody layering over the beat of the naqqara. Yusuf blocks high; Nicolò attacks low. Yusuf slashes; Nicolò thrusts. More potent than when they first took down the merchant’s enforcers, it is a coordination that, were Nicolò not generally feeling chagrined, he might’ve called divine. 

They make quick work of the Norsemen, twelve in all; the sun is beginning to rise by the time all pirates are either lying stunned on the ground or surrendering their weapons to the night crew. Someone has opened the brig, found another ten unconscious crewmen. Half the passengers have come out on the deck, recounting the proceedings excitedly among themselves though they weren’t present. Vijayendra shouts at Nicolò high from the quarter deck, waving his wooden beam. Nicolò waves back, leaning onto some barrels by the bow, exhausted and pleased. 

Next to the tarp-covered longboat in the centre of the deck, the captain is saying something to Yusuf, who has gone down on his haunches, panting, tunic drenched in sweat, and face flecked with blood. He responds, then wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, turning his head this way and that, searching for someone. Who? He stops when he sees Nicolò, and smiles. The sun’s rays light up the wiry ends of his hair, his beard. Me, Nicolò realises, feeling a surge of love. 

Nicolò is still looking at Yusuf, wondering how to respond with his face, when Yusuf’s expression morphs into horror. He doesn’t understand until a strong arm pulls him into a chokehold from behind; cold steel meets his cheek. Someone screams. Yusuf scrambles for his scimitar, a dozen crewmen draw their swords. 

The last remaining Norseman walks them both back until they’re right up against the ship rails. “Always be mindful of empty barrels,” he whispers in Nicolò's ear, and laughs. Nicolò hates him deeply. Casting his voice to the rest of the ship, the pirate says, “If any of you even step forward, I will slit his throat from ear to ear.” 

Nicolò meets Yusuf’s eyes. Yusuf nods at him, but the set of his mouth is grim. If the pirate harms Nicolò in front of all these witnesses and Nicolò magically heals—well. They'll have to swim to Aden. 

“We have shown the rest of your group mercy,” the captain says, raising his hands in a conciliatory way. “There is no reason to—”

“What do you want?” Yusuf calls out, in a cold, ringing voice. 

The pirate laughs. “A man who speaks my language.” Nicolò nearly scoffs. “Untie that longboat. Fill it with supplies, a cask of wine, food. A chest of your costliest spices. Lower it into the water so I can get it with myself and this man. When we are fifty strokes away, I’ll turn him overboard. You have my—”

They never get to hear the end of that sentence. A wooden beam lands squarely on the pirate’s head. The arm around Nicolò's throat loosens; the pirate staggers backwards and falls into the sea with a loud splash. Nicolò looks up at the quarter deck. Vijayendra gives him a thumbs up. 

“The head is no groin,” Vijayendra will say later, modestly, “but the aim was decent nonetheless, I think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this story so far, leave a comment and make my day / week / whole year. (I'm very easy to please). If you liked it a lot, you can also spread the word on tumblr [here](https://theburialofstrawberries.tumblr.com/post/626136534106652672/know-thyself-know-thy-enemy-rating-t-and-with). Thank you <3
> 
> So I know y’all aren't reading this fic for the historical tidbits, and thank god you aren't, because the sheer liberties I have taken....historical, cultural, geographical, nautical. Sincere apologies if you are someone reading this who actually like, knows facts. The one thing I've tried to be careful about are Yusuf and Nicolo's religion (it never sat right with me that they kill so wantonly in the movie!!!! I like head-canoning them as religious socialists who believe in like, the inherent reformative potential of human beings). So if you have any notes for improvement there, do drop them in the comments.
> 
> S/o to this [insane fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25160494) by Delphi where Yusuf and Nicolo communicate purely through speaking looks and emphatic hand gestures (#ItaliansHaveRightsToo). I have no backbone so of course I made them magically fluent in whatever I wanted, but god...what's rawer that two dudes being bros being frustrated by the emotional limits of language
> 
> If you have feelings about these two that connecting your fist to the wall has not helped in exorcising, message me on [tumblr.](https://theburialofstrawberries.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

The ship arrives at the port of Yanbu that same noon, offloading the imprisoned pirates who vow vengeance (one assumes, since Norse is not easier understood through mouth gags) as they are taken away to maritime court. Several upper deck passengers interested in Yanbu’s burgeoning spice trade also disembark. Severino is not one among them, but everything good cannot happen in the span of a single day, Nicolò reasons. The captain requests the honour of accommodating Nicolò, Yusuf, and Vijayendra in the vacated upper deck rooms (for the incidental benefit of avoiding paying out a bounty). Nicolò would decline—he and Severino have been studiously ignoring each other since last night, and the idea of being neighbours for the next few weeks is fraught, to say the least—but his back aches from the previous day’s unexpected physical activity. A bed would be nice. At least for a little while.

Noon-time meal is being served on the main deck. The steward has put grapes and orange in the gruel, elevating it from edible to somewhat enjoyable. Yusuf and Vijayendra are engaged in an intense conversation by the ship's rails. Nicolò did not realise they were close, or indeed, had a relationship with each other outside of his presence. Vijayendra says something; Yusuf looks conflicted. They both look at Nicolò at the same time and startle when they find him already looking their way. 

Nicolò finishes his meal and goes straight to his new bed, dread forming in his stomach. 

He wakes from deep sleep to a pounding at his door. Holds his head in his hands. Another one of his recurring dreams. The mysterious woman, beautiful and severe like a marble bust come to life, riding a horse as if she were an extension of it, in full leather gear. She always looks tired. He sympathises. “Enter.”

Vijayendra opens the door, winces when Nicolò looks up. “You look like someone covered their fists with soot and then punched you in both eyes.”

“You are too kind.” Nicolò gets up, almost falls back down onto bed.

“Eat some dinner and go back to sleep,” Vijayendra advises. It seems like sound advice. 

At dinner Severino drops the salt twice in his nervous attempt to pass it to Nicolò. They all pretend to not notice. Nicolò thanks him politely, and later interrupts one of Vijayendra’s tangents about Shaivite idolatry to ask Severino what he thinks about eroticism in Hindu culture. Severino is delighted. Because no good deed goes unpunished, he is back to convincing Yusuf and Nicolò by the end of dinner about why they should be his mercenaries instead of that rich Yemeni merchant’s. (Yusuf garbled out this story their first day on the ship, in response to a sharp look from Nicolò when Severino proposed a deal. He and Nicolò have now spun details around this fictional merchant so haphazardly that there are a half-dozen inconsistencies to be discovered, were Severino not more content hating the merchant, rather than thinking about why someone would _export_ spices to the south-west Indian subcontinent).

The moon blazes white in the cloudless night sky. Heavy steps sound on the deck, stop by Nicolò. A calloused hand grips his neck in greeting. Nicolò turns his face from the sea to Yusuf with raised eyebrows. He assumed everyone had retired to their rooms.

Yusuf looks at him thoughtfully. “You are sweet,” he says, though there is a hidden question there; he doesn’t sound decided on the point. 

“And you,” Nicolò says, “missed the dolphins.”

Yusuf’s face falls, then lights up again. He throws his head back and launches into a keening that does sound like a dolphin, albeit in its death throes. Someone bangs on the boards from below deck in protest. Nicolò keeps his face impassive. Yusuf stops, looks at him slyly. “Do you think they heard my call?” 

Nicolò bites back a thousand retorts; he shrugs. 

Yusuf laughs. “Not so much as a glare....you are learning my ways. I’m troubled.”

Nicolò shrugs.

“Or perhaps! Perhaps you are afraid,” Yusuf wags his finger, “that my superior tongue has mastered the art of communicating with creatures of the deep sea.” 

Nicolò, about to contest the phrase ‘superior tongue’, catches himself in time; he relaxes. He shrugs. Yusuf chuckles, claps his hand to Nicolò's neck once more. The wind is cold, but Yusuf’s hands are warm. Fitting that he should literally be hot-blooded, Nicolò thinks, smiling, and then has to admire the strategy of it all when Yusuf asks, “Shall we speak, then, Nicolò?”; the way Yusuf has prepared this moment for Nicolò to say yes, and have it be said without trepidation. 

“Yes,” Nicolò says. They’re about to turn and leave when a motion registers in the corner of Nicolò's eye. A dolphin arcs gracefully out of the water, chattering, and then vanishes. 

There is a long silence. “Don’t,” Nicolò warns, and heads for the stairs, Yusuf following with a self-satisfied smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filler before the storm chapter? filler before the storm chapter. your comments and reactions give me the JUICE to keep going - thank you from the bottom of my heart <3


	7. Chapter 7

“They should have served noon’s gruel for dinner,” Yusuf says, conversationally, as they reach their respective doors.

There’s a moment of awkwardness; which door should they enter? Yusuf motions towards Nicolò's. Does he think Nicolò would be uneasy in Yusuf’s room? Is Severino hidden in there, pouting at Yusuf’s prolonged absence? Nicolò's heart twists: is Vijayendra?

Nicolò opens his door, shows Yusuf inside. “A little citrus goes a long way,” Nicolò says, emphasising the ‘little’ with his thumb and forefinger in the expressive way he knows Yusuf enjoys. It pays off. Yusuf smiles broad, mimics the gesture. His lovely, sharp nose is red from the wind outside. Nicolò spots the small, barely-there vertical crease at its tip. This too, twists Nicolò's heart. How does it matter who, if anyone, Yusuf has in his room? Surely that’s the point, the lesson from his extravagant display of hubris the previous day. His is not to judge; his is merely to secure and support Yusuf’s happiness in whatever way he can. 

The room is half in darkness, lit only by incoming light from the open door. Nicolò walks over to the writing table that looks out to the sky through a small, circular window cased with heavy brass. He checks the oil remaining in the table lamp; refills it, pinches the wick, and strikes a match. The room springs alive. Yusuf is standing by the door with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes averted, like a well-trained servant. This will not do. Nicolò drags a chair creakingly to the bed, and for his part, plonks on the mattress and begins removing his boots. 

Yusuf shuts the door lightly; comes forward, takes his seat. “A little lie also goes a long way. I thought we were too interesting a pair of characters for anyone to believe we’re boring old mercenaries.” 

“We’re also too interesting for anyone to believe you simply wish to live by the sea,” Nicolò says. It occurs to him, just then, that if his immortality holds, and so does Yusuf’s, that he will see a great many of Yusuf’s lovers come and go with the march of time. He alone will stay by Yusuf’s side. It is a heady responsibility. He will prepare for it; he will carry it out well. 

“If I told anyone that, they’d ask, why not a thousand other coastal destinations? Why Aden?”

“Well.” Nicolò looks at Yusuf. “Why Aden?” 

Yusuf covers his face. Muffled, he says, “You will call me sentimental.” 

“I might,” Nicolò says. Because you are, he thinks. “Tell me.”

Yusuf uncovers his face; heaves a great sigh. Says, shifting into Arabic, “Aden was the destination of my mother’s last sea voyage. It’s where she grew up, before she married my father and was disowned by her parents. Her family used to be very rich, very landed. At the time my mother and father fell in love, they were nobility of the dwindling kind. Not so much pride that they wouldn’t haggle with the Maghribi trader for cloth, but enough pride that they would not have him as their son-in-law. You know how it is.” Nicolò does. Some things are universal. “So she left. They made a life in Cairo. They had me. My father’s business prospered. We didn’t have a very large family, just my father and my aunt, who soon followed her husband to Jeddah. It was always the three of us, Abbi, Ummi, and me against the world. 

“Ummi’s uncle came for her, after three decades of separation. Her mother’s brother, that is. I think her father’s side had entirely died out at that point. He said the family wanted to reconcile; she was the only child, you have to remember. 

“Ummi agreed, instantly. My father and I did not realise how deep the desire to see her family must have run, all those years, until that moment.” Yusuf tends to talk about his parents that way. As if they were great friends of his, and not merely people who kept him alive and fed. “Anyway, the ship sank in a storm, and then it was just me and Abbi. I went to war, was presumed dead, and Abbi passed away very quickly afterwards.” He looks at Nicolò, embarrassed. “I have made my peace with their deaths, do not mistake me. They lived full and happy lives and I would like to think I played a role in that. But something draws me to the idea of completing the journey she never got to complete.”

Nicolò is silent. “Do not be embarrassed,” he says finally. “That is a very beautiful and noble reason for visiting Aden.”

“You approve, then?” Yusuf asks, anxious. “You do not think me self-indulgent? I don’t want to neglect your preferences.”

“As you can tell,” Nicolò says, holding open his arms and gesturing at cabin walls, as if it is the entire Islamic world, “this is not my area of expertise. I trust you to make the decisions. I’ll follow.” 

“All right.” Yusuf’s shoulders relax, he smiles. 

Nicolò says, after a little hesitation, “We land in Jeddah in another week. And we dock there for a full two days. You will have time to see your aunt.” 

Yusuf looks taken aback. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Your aunt must have inherited some of your property. She could have belongings of your mother’s. Things that are precious to you.”

“Ummi’s poetry,” Yusuf says, half to himself. “She took nearly all of her poetry with her on the journey. So much work, lost to sea. Her uncle was not a very nice man. She joked that her little notebooks would keep her true company.” 

“Was her poetry any good as Rumi’s?” Nicolò asks in a light tone, meaning to tease, dispel the shadow over Yusuf’s face; but Yusuf answers with a serious nod. 

“Better. My aunt may have a few notebooks left...but I doubt she would part with them.”

“Tell her you’re—what was your mother’s name?” 

Yusuf supplies, “Noor.”

“And your aunt’s name?” 

“Ameera.”

“Tell Ameera you’re Noor’s grandson. Do it! You’ve done it before for war, of all things, do it now for love.”

“Ya rab.” Yusuf laughs. “It may actually work. She last saw me as a teenager, nearing manhood.” He rubs a hand through his beard, still smiling. “I had three hairs on my chin.”

It is strange to think of a beardless Yusuf. Nicolò's own hair takes months to move in a direction. Yusuf’s hair grows like weed in an honest man’s garden patch. “Can you do anything to endear yourself to her? I assume she won’t be pleased that her nephew Yusuf slept with a Jewish whore—”

“Married a Jewish whore." He looks glum. "Even when I do the wrong thing, I do it the honorable way. Ameera will be so disappointed in me. Or my father, rather. Who is me. Why do I feel like I’m forgetting something crucial—” Yusuf then surges out of his chair, eyes widened in panic. “Umrah!”

When Yusuf is seated again and calmer, Nicolò learns about Umrah. It turns out that Umrah is something that will surely soften Yusuf’s aunt, and also something that Yusuf had been planning for a while, before he stowed the thought in the wrong shelf of his brain. The more he talks about Umrah, the more animated and happy he becomes. 

Muslims may visit Mecca outside of Hajj, the main annual pilgrimage. These shorter, year-round pilgrimages are called Umrah. As with Hajj, any Muslim intending to do Umrah must enter a state of purity, or the state of Ihram, within a certain geographic radius of the Great Mosque of Mecca. For Yusuf, this will be when they pass Rabigh, another coastal town, a few days before they arrive at Jeddah. 

Yusuf counts off the Ihram rules on his fingers. “I have to wear seamless white cloth. No undergarments.” Nicolò nods, nonchalantly. “I can’t kill or harm any animal or plant. I can’t carry a weapon,” here, he turns to Nicolò with serious eyes, “so you must look after my favourite scimitar, Nicolò. See that it is oiled regularly. What else? No shaving or trimming, no perfume, no fighting, no,” there’s a slight break in his rhythm, “sexual activities. No swearing either.” 

Nicolò feels hot under the collar, wishes the useless little circular window could be opened. But it cannot; he has tried. “No swearing. You will be boring for days.” 

“I will be closer to God,” Yusuf corrects. “I will be blocking out _unwanted noise_ ,” and Nicolò searches for something to throw at his head, but the pillow is on the other side of the mattress, too far away. 

Mecca is half a day of horse riding from the port of Jeddah. Once there, performing Umrah will take a few hours. Yusuf will circle the Kaaba seven times and make a wish at the Multazam, the space by Kaaba’s gates where they say all prayers are heard and granted, a concept Nicolò finds wistful and romantic; he wonders what Yusuf will wish for. Yusuf will then walk between the hills of Safa and Marwah, also seven times. Unlike most pilgrims, Yusuf will do Umrah thrice; once for himself, once for his Abbi and Ummi. All in all, he will spend a full day at Mecca. 

“I wish you could come with me,” Yusuf says. “To visit Mecca, to circle the Kaaba...it is a fulfillment I cannot describe. For a stretch of time it feels like there is only you, and God. And you don’t need to strive, and you don’t need struggle. You just need to close your eyes, and be.”

Nicolò thinks of the Ligurian coast; the waves crashing against the rocks. Standing by the cliff’s edge, with the wind in his face, and God in his heart.

“It sounds wondrous,” he says, and putting away half a century of ingrained distaste with these simple words, finds that he means it. 

“It is.” Yusuf smiles. “So on the second day, we will visit Ameera.” He sounds satisfied that everything has fallen into place. “She will see my bald head and know that I have performed Umrah, and of course I will tell her that I kissed the Hajr al-Aswad, and she will think I am such a perfect and pious grand-nephew—”

“Wait. Wait wait wait,” Nicolò says. “Bald?” 

“Yes.” Yusuf’s eyes are twinkling, like he knows exactly what is on Nicolò's mind. “The final ritual of the Umrah is halq. A fellow pilgrim will shave my head.” 

Nicolò stares at him. Yusuf laughs out loud. “It will grow back, Nico, I promise,” as if Nicolò doesn’t know how fast Yusuf’s hair grows, and also, Nico; that’s the first he’s ever been called Nico. Say it again, Nicolò thinks, then despairs all over again at the prospect of a bald Yusuf. Surreptitiously, he analyses the shape of Yusuf’s head and tries to imagine what Yusuf might look like without hair. 

“Vijayendra will not be pleased.” 

“Vijayendra,” Yusuf says, very comfortably, “is a bastard, and if he is upset that he did not get to shave my head, he shouldn’t have cheated at shatranj.” 

Nicolò tries not to smile, and instead, yawns. He puts a hand over his mouth. Yusuf looks dismayed.

“I forgot you didn’t sleep well. Forgive me, I’ve been speaking so much. Should I leave?” 

“No,” Nicolò says. “We haven’t yet. Well, we’ve spoken a lot, but we haven’t really spoken.”

“Ah. Yes,” Yusuf says, the frown Nicolò so dislikes returning to his face. His back straightens, his hands smooth up and down his thighs for several long moments. It’s his nervous tic, Nicolò knows. He feels his own heartbeat speed up; a dull, aching bruise spreads in his chest. He remembers the way Yusuf looked at him that night; the slow slide of his face from disbelief to hard, cold anger. 

Yusuf looks up, takes in Nicolò's face, his body. Something seems to alarm him. “What happened?” 

“What?” Nicolò tries to control his breathing. 

“You changed, so suddenly, you—” Yusuf puts the back of both his hands together, turns them inward like an arrow aimed at his chest. “Your posture is protective, your shoulders are hunched. It’s like you expect me to lash you across the back.” 

Yusuf lashing him across the back. The words drop clean in the centre of his mind, making a ripple. Nicolò ignores it, keeps still. He wants this to be over. “Let us not pretend,” he says steadily, the words heavy in Arabic. “You are about to lash me, verbally. I don’t need to be comfortable for it.” 

“What are you saying?” asks Yusuf sharply, shifting to Genoese. “Why do you feel this way?”

“It’s fine,” Nicolò says. “I know you are angry with me. You can be angry with me.”

“I was before, but I shouldn’t have been. I didn’t come to your room to, to lash you, I didn’t come with so degrading a task in my mind. Please, put yourself at ease—” 

“I can’t!” Nicolò cries. The words ring through the room. Lamp-light flickers, subtly changing the shadows on Yusuf’s face. “I can’t,” he repeats, low. “You’re going to tell me I judged you. That as a man of God, I had no right to. And as a friend, I had even less of a right. You’re going to tell me I am quick to anger. That my anger suppresses my compassion. It draws me so far from God that if God screamed I would not hear Him. You think I don’t know about—about men like you? I fought alongside such men before I fought alongside you. I watched men like you die. They would tell me to remember them to their children.” He shudders; fights to keep his hand from going to his mouth. “I know what you’re going to say, and I agree with all of it. These are my faults. But God forgive me, I am not used to my faults being so obvious. When I catch my reflection in a glass, or in the sea, I cringe away from it. I cannot regard my lowly face, my baseness, my meanness, for too long. I cannot stand the idea that you have regarded my baseness, my meanness. That you have done that, and that you are still,” he nearly stops; “that you are still my friend.” Silence descends in the room as if it was always there; total, encasing, like being inside a cathedral in the darkest part of the night.

Nicolò bows his head, feels hot tears sliding down his face, the bridge of his nose. 

“Forgive me, Yusuf,” he says, quietly. 

He hears the shifting of cloth, soft steps. A hand cups the back of his head, the other at his shoulder, making reassuring circles. Yusuf, standing in front of Nicolò, brings him to his chest. 

Nicolò breaths raggedly into Yusuf’s tunic, hands leaden by his side, holding onto the mattress. They stay like this for a while; a few minutes, a few hours. Nicolò knows not. Eventually, Yusuf steps back, and his hands move to hold Nicolò's face, turn it up to his. 

His black eyes are shining, regarding Nicolò with deep purpose. Nicolò feels conscious of his own face, his expression; his tears, his mucus. He wonders if Yusuf will recoil. 

Yusuf says, “I forgive you.” Bends down, kisses Nicolò's left cheek, then his right. Pulls away, considers; then, tilting his head, presses a light kiss to Nicolò's lips. He lets go of Nicolò's face to grip his shoulders. “We are brothers. We have spilled blood to save each other. One day, we will have saved each other more times than we have killed each other. I am certain of it.” The hand on his left shoulder tightens. “You are the best man I know.”

Nicolò feels lost. He closes his eyes; tries to commit to memory the feel of Yusuf’s beard, tickling his chin. 

“Did you hear me, Nicolò?” 

“Yes,” Nicolò says, opening his eyes. His voice sounds almost normal now. “I heard you. Thank you.” 

Yusuf takes his hands away, steps back. Takes another step back, falls into his chair. “Will you...will you allow me to say just one thing?” 

“Anything,” Nicolò says. 

“These words you used to describe yourself. Lowly, base, mean. It hurts me to hear you use these words.” 

Nicolò gives him a small smile, shrugs. “You are tender.” 

Yusuf raises his chin. “I am.” He holds Nicolò's gaze with a defiant one of his own until Nicolò is squirming, then says, abruptly, “One day, when I was seven years old, I went straight from my Tahtib lesson to Ummi, instead of going to play with my friends.” Nicolò is confused; he listens on. “It was a special day. My instructor had praised me, said I was the best in the class. He was a strong, tall man, deadly with a stick. A hero to all us boys. I ran to my mother and told her to reserve him for me; I would marry him one day.”

“No!” 

“Truly,” Yusuf says, grinning. “She whacked me on the head with a cooking spoon. She would have done well at Tahtib!” He looks pleased at Nicolò's smile. His face turns contemplative. “I think my parents always knew I preferred men. But they loathed the idea of disciplining me; there was perhaps an instinct in them, a powerful one, that told them if they did, they would never be able to take it back. But it showed nevertheless, in small, cruel ways. In recurring fights about suitable wives. They were torn by what they’d been taught, and their love for me. And their love for me was very immense, you must understand. It was immense.” He has a faraway look on his face. “I wonder sometimes if they chose not to have a second child, because they were afraid they would not love it as much as they loved me.” His face clears; he turns to Nicolò. “The people who loved me most in the world could not accept me for a long time, not perhaps until their death. These things take time. Take your time, Nicolò.” 

“I don’t need time.” Yusuf looks skeptical at that. “But I have questions.”

“Ask me.” 

This is the one; the burning one. “How do you know when someone is—like you?” The image of the back of Severino’s head; yellow and shiny between Yusuf’s strong thighs.

“I can answer…but I will sound conceited,” Yusuf says. 

“So you will sound like yourself,” Nicolò reasons. 

Yusuf shakes his head, looks at Nicolò with an _anything else?_ expression. Nicolò benevolently gestures for Yusuf to continue. 

“It is about self-awareness. I have a good measure of myself. I try to take a good measure of others. I know I am an attractive man. I have learned, through the years, the difference between a discomfited and an inviting blush. The moment in a conversation where the quality of silence shifts. It is a combination of practical signs and a sixth sense.” 

“And,” Nicolò pauses, considering his next words. “What kind of men do you—prefer.”

Yusuf sighs. “Less talkative than Severino, generally,” he says, to Nicolò's surprised laughter. “He is sweet. But you might have guessed, I was somewhat intoxicated that day.” Somewhat, Nicolò internally scoffs. “Although,” and here Yusuf's tone changes, turns careful; he looks into Nicolò's face with his black, glittering eyes.“I do not always know when a man is like me. And sometimes, when I think I know, I am wrong.”

Nicolò takes his meaning, flushes; can barely look at Yusuf. “Let us not—”

“Will you forgive me, Nicolò?” He smiles his half-smile, the one with the gently raised brows; like a peace offering, a hand extended tentatively, that will accept rejection with good grace. “You must not think you are the only one who has erred.” 

“There is nothing to forgive,” Nicolò says quickly. 

“Nonsense.” A silence forms again between them, lengthens. Nicolò's nervousness thins like gruel dripping from a spoon, and his head droops. Yusuf lets out an exhale. “We have had a hundred conversations in the space of one, haven’t we.” 

Nicolò digs the heel of his hand into his eyes. “It’s your own fault,” he says, “for being so sentimental.” Yusuf laughs.

He gets up, pushes Nicolò gently into the bed. Nicolò falls without resistance, the muscles in his back and neck weeping with joy.

Yusuf looks down at him fondly, then makes for the door. “Will you sleep with your lamp alight?”

“Yes,” Nicolò murmurs, already turning his face into a pillow. 

“Goodnight, my Nico,” comes a voice, faint. There is the sound of a door clicking shut, and then all is quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My biggest, most fervent thanks to [Reyb18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyb18/pseuds/Reyb18), for clarifying my doubts and helping me nail Umrah and so many other wonderful aspects of Islamic culture. It was their idea to have Yusuf visit Mecca instead of passing it by and do Umrah thrice (he is such a good son ;___;) and importantly, their brainchild to test how crazy Nicolo might be driven by a Yusuf who is forbidden to wear underwear. We will see the results soon. Much gratitude also to [dandelionheartstuff](https://dandelionheartstuff.tumblr.com/) for going through small details with a fine comb. Both these wonderful people have helped me with the next several chapters. Any mistakes are all my own. 
> 
> FYI, work has picked up again so I may not get another chapter out until like, next week. So please be gentle with your utensil clanging...I hear you and I love you and I'm working as hard as I can!


	8. Chapter 8

Nicolò wakes up the next morning feeling rested. He twists his hips, listening to the knobs of his spine crack. There is a happy, anticipatory feeling in his chest. He smiles, not knowing why he should have reason to smile, before the events of last night rush to his mind. Yusuf using his hands to describe the Kaaba. Yusuf throwing his head back with laughter. Yusuf staring down at him with a serious face and soft mouth. 

Nicolò brings the back of his hand to his lips and, so lightly that he could deny it, kisses a knuckle. He remembers how Yusuf smelled: sea salt, sweat, musk. A hint of the fragrant jasmine oil that Yusuf was hell-bent on buying from a trader in Yanbu. Nicolò thinks of how Yusuf pulled him to his chest, muscles heaving underneath the rough jute. Yusuf’s hairs poking through the cloth, prickling Nicolò's cheek. 

He gets up in a panic, then glares down at his lap. Certain parts of his body have become inconveniently attentive to the proceedings. He rolls out of bed, fills an extra-cold basin of water, performs his ablutions. Wet and shivering, he takes out his woollen prayer knot and sends a plea for fortitude. His body has overcome other desires before: hunger, thirst, the urge to flinch and avoid pain. But this one is unfamiliar. 

Nicolò puts away the prayer knot, prods cautiously at the question on the edge of his mind: Does he desire Yusuf? 

Lightning does not smite him where he stands. His breathing speeds slightly, but otherwise, Nicolò detects nothing unusual about himself. He glances at the looking glass: his eyes are perhaps brighter, his face slightly flushed. The question is not a surprise; he has been conscious of its festering for weeks now. Man is never free from sin, he reminds himself (he is not lowly, he is not base, he is not mean, he reminds himself). Absolution is not attained by remaining in a state of perfect grace at all times, but by striving, reaching, falling short, and striving once more. But the stakes are too high for Nicolò to fall short. He must keep his affection for Yusuf unsullied, untainted from perversion. To fail at this will bring disaster; alienation from God and the separation of his and Yusuf’s paths. 

The old tunic and breeches are put to soak in leftover water. “Imagine a century of being alone again,” he says aloud, calmly, “after what you know of the benefits of companionship now.” Yusuf has invited Nicolò's interest in the past. He might do so again, if Nicolò wished. Nicolò remembers the guilty lust on Yusuf’s face when his eyes cut away from Nicolò's lips, the night they all drank wine, and begins scrubbing the clothes with more force than strictly necessary. He must be strong for the both of them. He must turn his mind to God. 

Nicolò reflects, unhappily, that Yusuf and Jesus look very alike. 

He pulls on dry clothes, wrings water from the ones in the basin, and goes to hang them by the sternside clothesline. When he opens the door a spider, tiny and translucent, falls to the ground. Trapped on its back, it struggles to right itself. The sight strikes Nicolò's heart. Yusuf’s tenderness is contagious. He bends down, nudges the spider upright, and waits patiently until it has crawled onto his hand so he can deposit it atop the door frame. It scuttles away as soon it gains footing and disappears. 

“Nicolò!” He turns around. Yusuf is closing the door to his cabin. In his hand is wrung-out cloth, trailing water on the floor. 

They walk to the clothesline together and start shaking out their clothes. It takes Nicolò a few moments to realise Yusuf is deliberately trying to snap water onto Nicolò. He turns to him with an unimpressed face, gets hit with a few droplets in the eye. 

“Did you sleep well?” Yusuf asks in Arabic, after Nicolò has threatened to drop his breeches into the sea. 

“Very,” Nicolò says. “My sleep was dreamless and deep. And you?” 

“I am glad. I couldn’t sleep, the moon was too remarkable last night. Orange and red, like a beacon to summon dead souls to the underworld.” 

A beacon to summon dead souls! Nicolò would describe an orange moon as an orange. He wishes he had been awake as well. “Was the artist inspired?”

Yusuf laughs. “I tried, but charcoal does not lend itself well to the capturing colour.” He pauses. “I also meant to check,” the tone is too innocent; Yusuf is going to attempt a joke, “if all you said about me last night still holds? I hope if the moon summoned me to hell, you would not think it fitting.” 

Nicolò looks at him. Yusuf rears back. 

“You are not going to hell,” Nicolò says tightly. “I have met people who are going to hell, and you are the farthest possible—you are not going to hell.” He snaps his tunic viciously.

“How could I go to hell,” Yusuf says, after a moment, “with such a passionate advocate on my side. You’d browbeat God into admitting me inside heaven.” 

“I wouldn’t have to,” Nicolò insists. “Yusuf, I’m not going to—” he stops, feels a flush creeping up the back and sides of his neck. He changes language clumsily, from Arabic to Genoese. “Please, we have spoken about our regard for each other too frankly now to joke about this.” 

Nicolò folds his tunic in half, sets it gently on the line where it flaps in the breeze. When he looks up, Yusuf is gazing at him warmly. “Even so,” Yusuf says, switching with ease, “it’s nice to hear it from you.” 

Nicolò decides he is looking forward to a bald Yusuf, or at least one less handsome than the Yusuf in front of him now, when inspiration strikes. “Yusuf,” Nicolò breathes, committing boldly to the course of action as it materialises out of his mouth; of course, this is the only way to both atone and ensure his affection does not become perverted. “I am going to help you.” 

“With what?”

Nicolò gives him a significant look. 

Yusuf’s eyes widen; he laughs out loud. “You are going to help me with sodomy.” 

“Not so loud,” Nicolò hisses, leaning over the rail to see if anyone’s listening; voice from the quarter deck carries. Yusuf is still laughing. “I’m serious. Your judgement in men can be poor—” 

“What in the world did Severino ever do to you?” Yusuf asks, a hand on his cheek, wonder in his voice.

“—and you need me to temper your impulsiveness!” 

“Fine, why not!” Yusuf says, slightly hysterical. “You give your unsolicited opinion on every little thing I do anyway.” 

Nicolò nods, satisfied. Then, in a light voice: “Vijayendra is a good man.” 

Yusuf looks to the skies as if for reinforcement, then back to Nicolò. “No.” 

“No?” 

“We would not—no.” 

“Huh,” Nicolò says, surprised. 

“I think you should talk to Vijayendra. It has been days since I saw you both in a corner somewhere scheming.”

“We don’t scheme,” Nicolò says. “We exchange ideas that are mutually tasteful to one another.” They scheme a little. 

On the main deck, Vijayendra and Severino have already begun breaking fast. They make space by the rails when Nicolò and Yusuf approach with their bowls. The sun is not harsh this morning; crewmen are climbing the mast, making repairs to the sails. Nicolò thinks of the hole in his tunic, wonders if he should borrow a needle and thread. Vijayendra tells them he has a lot of customers lined up for the day. With Miqat Al-Juhfah approaching, many pilgrims want one last shave before they enter Ihram. 

“Do they appreciate that they will be serviced by the very hands that are on their way to fulfill a contract for the Sultan of Seljuq? No, I do not think they do.” Nicolò likes how Vijayendra’s soft voice tinges everything he says with a menacing quality. 

“I thought the contract was for one of the Sultan’s councillors, not the Sultan himself,” Yusuf says, around a mouthful of gruel. After a lot of wrangling and pointed reminders that Yusuf saved the ship from certain doom, Vijayendra has agreed to shave Yusuf and waive his usual fee. 

Vijayendra regards Yusuf coolly, like he’s reconsidering the waiver. “The job has potential for upward mobility.” 

Severino nods. “It’s true. A barber married into my family on my mother’s side. He’s now a Viscount with his own vineyard.” He looks confused when Vijayendra informs him this is not quite what upward mobility means. 

The bowls are soon scraped clean, but they talk some more. Severino is excited to dock at Jeddah; he’s been hunting rare texts on venereal disease and Italian aristocratic genealogy, as well as venereal disease within Italian aristocracy, and believes he has found the right contact. Yusuf worries if he’ll be able to get white unseamed cloth at such short notice; Vijayendra points him to a kindly merchant by the name of Khair al-Kamali who was bartering cloth the other day with some other pilgrims, then less helpfully points out that Ihram clothing was first fashion among his people, as usual the Arabs are behind on all the important trends, and Yusuf should rightfully call the cloth he ties around his waist a veshti. 

“Good air circulation, or so I’ve heard.”

“Heard?” Nicolò asks. “Haven’t you worn a veshti?” 

Even through his dark skin, Vijayendra’s blush is obvious. “No,” he says shortly. “Not personally.” He exchanges a loaded glance with Yusuf _and_ Severino? Once Yusuf has broken off to speak with Khair, and Severino has settled somewhere with his nose in a book, Nicolò corners Vijayendra below deck before he can find a decent shatranj player. 

“Vijay. What are you hiding from me?” 

“What do you mean?” Vijayendra looks guilty. 

“These secret looks, and these secret conversations—you and Yusuf, the other day—” 

“There’s nothing secret about that, we were talking about you.”

Nicolò frowns. “What were you saying?” 

“He said he wasn’t sure if he should talk to you, about, you know,” Vijayendra mimes a keyhole, pulls his eyelids away from an eyeball with two fingers; Nicolò shoves at his shoulder. “I said that sounded like a terrible idea, because both of you looked like you needed a good long conversation with each other.”

“We had one last night,” Nicolò says. Vijayendra raises his eyebrows. “A conversation, nothing more! It was lovely. We opened our hearts to one another.”

“That is lovely,” Vijayendra agrees. 

“Yes,” Nicolò says. “Would you like to try something similar with me?” 

“I want to tell you, but,” Vijayendra groans. “I didn’t want to tell anyone. You need to understand, no one was supposed to know.” He grabs Nicolò by the elbow, hauls him to a relatively private recess next to where a raucous gambling game with cowrie shells is taking place. Nicolò looks at him expectantly. 

Vijayendra leans in and says, “I’m a woman.” When Nicolò doesn’t react, Vijayendra shakes his arm. “Say something!”

Nicolò finds his voice. “How do the others know?”

She looks miserable. “Yusuf guessed by accident. He called me habibti once instead of habibi, and I reacted badly. This was a week into our voyage. And Severino,” she shakes her head. “On the night the pirates attacked and we barricaded ourselves in the room, Severino started spouting poetry about my eyes, and I eventually realised he was propositioning me. Telling him the truth was the easiest way out.”

“I always assumed you did a very close shave on yourself.” 

“It’s an assumption I encourage.” 

He looks closely at Vijay’s small, neat face, trying to recast it as something more feminine and less masculine in his mind, but that only results in a jumble of confusion. Her face is, after all, unchanged. It is only Nicolò whose perception has changed. “Is your name really Vijayendra?”

“You can call me Vijay if you’re more comfortable with that. It’s actually Vijaya,” she admits, embarrassed. 

Nicolò steels himself to ask the next question. “Did you not tell me because you feared my judgement?” To wrong Yusuf was painful enough, but if he has inadvertently wronged Vijay as well—

“No offense, but I’m not very concerned with your judgement.” 

Nicolò smiles faintly, then goes sombre again. It is time to come clean with his foolishness. “I thought that maybe you and Yusuf were, well.” 

“I could tell,” Vijay says. “You need to make more friends, Nicolò. Contrary to what you think, not everyone is in love with Yusuf.” She pauses, then adds, not unkindly, “And not everyone has a preference for men, either.” 

Nicolò absorbs that. “Fine. So you’re not angry with me?”

“No. And you’re not angry with me?” 

“Of course not.” 

She reaches up on her toes, boxes his ear with affection. “I’ll tell you my story over a shave, I promise. Let me shave your beard. Or whatever you call this thing on your jaw, it looks like the algae spotting on the side of our ship. Actually, wait,” she tugs at a lock of his hair, frowning, “this needs to be corrected as well. Beard and hair it is, free of charge.”

“Free of charge, with no persuasion on my part? Yusuf will be upset.” Vijay seems cheered by this thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew, that's vijay's secret out!!! also sorry for writing nicolo the way jane eyre would write a self insert but truly he is channeling the Self-Flagellating Idiot spirit. I look forward as ever to your thoughts and comments, they are oil that keeps this horny engine moving. This week's shout out goes to my sister, who's been sense checking my humour (if anything lands you have her to thank), this [charming video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bj_66y5-kbg) I forgot to link to earlier that goes over basic arabic slang, and this [hilarious tumblr post](https://miss-spookhead.tumblr.com/post/626052976943005696/so-the-immortals-dreamt-of-each-other-before-they) about yusuf and nicky's dreams during the crusades. You can vent your feelings to me on tumblr [here](https://theburialofstrawberries.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: alcoholism mention

Holding a blade against another man’s throat without the intention to kill is a delicate enough task on land; to do so on a tossing ship, one needs great skill and greater hubris. Vijay has both. Noon arrives with its searing sun, sending passengers scuttling below deck or up into their cabins. The ship will dock at Al-Juhfah later that night, and the window for any Muslim pilgrims who want to shave is rapidly closing. Vijay swaps her short white kurta for a long black one—her uniform, she tells Nicolò, with a private smile—and paces the length of the lower deck, deep in concentration. She stops suddenly, scruffs the spot where she’s standing with the heel of her boot, then paces the entire deck again until she has returned to the same spot. Satisfied, she hands Yusuf a hammer and asks him to nail a crate to the floorboards where she’s standing. He does so with gusto, tunic sleeves pushed to his elbows and arms flashing with hard muscles. Sweat stains his armpits, runs a dotted line down the centre of his back. Nicolò desperately wants to put his palm over Yusuf’s bicep and feel the machinery at work; run a finger underneath Yusuf’s tunic and unstick the brown jute from skin. Since both actions are inadvisable, he keeps his hands clasped behind his back.

Yusuf drops the hammer to the ground once done, heaves himself onto the crate, panting, nose and upper cheeks beaded attractively with sweat. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Vijay asks. 

“Sitting down for my shave?” 

Vijay gestures to the line of passengers that has formed while Yusuf has been hammering away, now looping the length of the deck twice. “After my paying customers.”

Yusuf gets off the crate irritatedly, goes to join Nicolò by the wall. Vijay seats her first customer. He is a nervous young man from the Maghreb who confesses it is his first time travelling by sea; he has never gone without shaving so long. His wife, a sweet-faced lady in a fashionable abaya, tells Vijay quite worriedly that she has forgotten the shape of her husband’s face. 

Vijay takes measure of the thick, coarse beard. “We shall be reminded soon,” she reassures the wife, snapping open a narrow wooden case about the length of her forearm. Nicolò catches a glimpse of red silk inlay and what looks like every variant of blade, scissor, and comb made within the last century. She picks out a sturdy ivory comb and works it through the man’s beard until it hangs tame, then combs against the grain so it fluffs to a width about equivalent to the length. Then, the comb is pressed to the cheek and hair passes through the comb teeth as in a sieve; Vijay removes the excess with a pair of scissors in her other hand. Once the beard is trimmed, she puts aside the comb and scissors, creates a lather in her hands with soap powder and boiled seawater and rubs it into the man’s face. A few customers in line let out dreamy sighs. Vijay pulls the man’s cheek high and taut, begins defining the beard line into something neat with a flint blade. Every now and then, she pulls the blade away and waits out the ship’s swaying, but otherwise, her spot seems well-chosen. When the last of the lather has been washed away from the man’s face, his wife gives a small gasp. Vijay has excavated a hidden handsomeness from the depths of that beard. The audience awakens from its trance, breaks out into appreciative murmurs. Vijay flips a cloth onto the back of her hand, cleans the blade with a practised flourish, then motions for the next customer to come forward. Nicolò realises that she is, if anything, undercharging for her service. He looks sideways at Yusuf, who seems to have realised the same thing. 

“Incredible,” Yusuf says, leaning against the wall. The next customer has already been seated. Vijay tests his hair between her fingers, seems indecisive between a flint and oyster blade.

“Very different to using one’s own dagger and leaning over a river.”

“Very! But imagine someone else shaving your beard for the rest of all time.” Yusuf shudders in distaste; he likes to be self-sufficient, Nicolò has noticed. “What you describe has its own charm.”

“Yes, yes, I forget, the charm of constant fear you will be pushed into the river by a playful companion.” 

“By accident!” Yusuf says, turning to him with passion. “How was I to know _both_ your knees were over the edge?” Nicolò answers with a placid look. Yusuf huffs out a laugh, grips Nicolò's neck, “You are a true camel, aren’t you? Keeping careful record of all the,” Nicolò stiffens, hunches his shoulder slightly, “the, uh,” Yusuf’s hand drops away instantly; he blinks at Nicolò, “the injustices done to you.” Nicolò almost caves then and there, wants to apologise and put Yusuf’s hand back where it was. But he can’t. This is for the best. Until he can learn to receive Yusuf’s physical affection with a guiltless mind, he doesn’t deserve it. 

Then again, Yusuf does not deserve to think his affection is poorly received. Nicolò shifts closer, gives Yusuf a small smile. “The camels and I, we have long memories. Of what other use is a long memory.” 

Yusuf relaxes; he faces forward. “What about remembering nice things?” 

“Nice things,” Nicolò repeats, dubiously. He looks at Yusuf’s profile, sees his cheek lift.

“Our Nicolò is presented with an incomprehensible riddle,” Yusuf says, in the voice of a shadow puppeteer setting the stage. “Things that are nice? Such things were forbidden centuries ago, by edict of the Great Camel Emperor—” 

Together, they build an impressive canon around the Great Camel Emperor, who has five magnificent humps and knocks out dissident subjects with his deadly spit, accurate within a range of a thousand paces. Yusuf decides the Emperor has a harem of silky-haired female camels. Nicolò proposes that the concubines are to distract the Emperor from the death of his true love, the only other camel with a spit as deadly and accurate as the Emperor. He thinks of the severe-faced woman from his dreams, and her sharpshooting companion. Khair, the smiling merchant, comes by to check if Yusuf has the unscented soap he needs for Ihram. They joke around and trade backslaps. Nicolò notes that Yusuf has not touched him once in the past hour. Khair extends Yusuf an open invitation to all five of his homes in Morocco. The pile of hair in front of Vijay’s crate grows slowly. Khair leaves. They sneak a small pair of flint scissors out of Vijay’s wooden case and trim their nails to pass the time. 

“You don’t have the half-moons,” Nicolò says. 

“I do, look. But they’re faint, not like yours.” Yusuf waves his fingers, sticks out his hand. He’s right, the crescent is there, pale and pinkish. There are charcoal smudges on the pouch of skin around his nail, his knuckles. It’s a long-fingered hand, an artist’s reference. Nicolò holds out his own, to see if there are other contrasts, and their hands touch. 

“Sorry,” Nicolò murmurs, putting the offending hand behind his back. 

Yusuf looks to the floor and says, soft and light, “I hope you know, you are quite safe from my gaze. It has passed on.” 

“I know that,” Nicolò says automatically. “I feel safe around you, it is only,” Nicolò presses his lips together, shrugs; he doesn’t think there’s any satisfying explanation he could share. Finally, he repeats, “I feel safe around you Yusuf. I swear it.” Yusuf nods. 

He does not desire me anymore, Nicolò thinks, and almost laughs, remembering how worried he had been that very morning Yusuf may be overcome with lust for Nicolò. How he thought his abstinence was for the good of them both. Serves him right. 

He jerks his head awkwardly at the line. “Do you find any of them handsome?”

Yusuf glances at him. “Are you trying to—how did you put it? Help me?” Nicolò shrugs. His palms are clammy. He’d give anything for the conversation to lighten again. “He’s not bad.”

Nicolò follows Yusuf’s eyes to a tall, broad-chested youth with a swarthy complexion, full beard, and a skull cap resting on his black curls. “The slightly younger Yusuf? Isn’t that vain?” 

Yusuf lets out a half-laugh, one hand massaging his temple. “How about that one.” 

“Bad posture.” 

Yusuf motions to a customer near the front of the queue. “That one?” 

Nicolò grimaces, turns to Yusuf with an uncertain look. “His nails are a bit long. That might prove uncomfortable at...one’s extremities.” Yusuf launches off the wall and walks away before coming back, shoulders shaking with laughter. 

“I don’t understand you,” he says, gasping. “You were a priest!” 

“I took confessions,” Nicolò defends himself. “I’ve heard it all.” 

Vijay finally seats Yusuf close to evening, just as the lanterns are beginning to be lit. Yusuf says he just wants a quick dry trim. Vijay is unimpressed. “You fight me for so long, and for what. A quick dry trim.”

“He’s saving his hair for the barbers inside Mecca,” Nicolò adds, throwing some fat in the fire. Vijay smacks Yusuf’s head with a comb for this imagined disrespect. 

“Never! But you’ve given everyone neat beard lines, so now I want to keep mine scruffy.” He looks sheepish. Vijay throws her hands up in defeat, but does as he wishes. Once done, she closes her hands over Yusuf’s head and presses down with her full weight, pretending to weep over the beauty of his curls, soon to be lost. Yusuf laughs, bats her off him. “Why does everyone think my hair is going away forever! It grows back very fast, I told Nicolò this too—” 

Nicolò observes the two of them hungrily, aware more than ever of how the impossibility of being attracted to someone gives you greater liberty to touch them. 

“What do you think?” Vijay asks. 

Nicolò refocuses. “What should I be thinking of?”

“My trim,” Yusuf says, cupping his chin, nose wrinkled in anticipation of an unfavourable opinion.

“It looks good,” Nicolò says. It does; the trim has revealed the pleasing lines of Yusuf’s jaw. “You look good always.” 

Yusuf appears stricken by this. Vijay smiles. “You are too lovable,” she informs Nicolò, then turns to Yusuf. “Will you stay for Nicolò's shave?”

“I have to go, make sure everything’s ready,” Yusuf says. He sounds regretful. “We dock at Al-Juhfah shortly.”

“I’m telling him my story,” Vijay says, readying the lather. 

“I’ve heard it,” he says, with warmth. “It’s a good story.”

“Go, go,” Nicolò says. He watches Yusuf climb the ladder to the main deck, then averts his eyes when he realises he is staring at Yusuf’s behind. Vijay sits Nicolò down, starts rubbing the lather into his cheeks. 

“So, where to begin,” she muses, then flicks his ear when he tries answering. “That was rhetorical, don’t move your face.”

Vijay massages the lather in circular motions, tells Nicolò about her childhood growing up in the bustling district of Thanjavur. Her father was a respected barber, but he drank too much. He’d promise Vijay and her mother that every bottle was the last bottle, and they’d find him the next day, disoriented and red-eyed on the verandah. 

Her voice goes lower than its usual register; she looks around, is satisfied they can’t be overheard. “You wouldn’t recognise me if you knew me then. My hair came to my knees. The days my father was in a stupor, I’d tie it up in a turban and go to work in his stead. No one wondered how Rajan anna had hired a helper while half in debt. And the problem didn’t end when he came awake. The alcohol would do things to his hand,” she wobbles the razor for Nicolò's demonstration, then makes him take his upper lip in so she can scrape at his mustache. “Has anyone ever told you your hair is very fine, like a baby’s? It’s like shaving through air. Anyway, my father’s shop became my shop. 

“It was a good arrangement for us. Father wanted things to stay like this forever, and so did I. In my mind I was halfway to getting famous. My mother disapproved, but we needed the money and couldn’t rely on him. Then my brother ruined everything. He’d been apprenticing as a priest away from home, and when he came back he was livid. Told them I was approaching womanhood; that no man would have a cross-dresser for a wife, and that I was to get respectable quickly. I was sixteen, maybe seventeen. I was going to be married away to someone my brother and the stars had found consensus on. It was all nonsense, and my parents were too timid to stand up for me, to urge a little patience. 

“And I looked at myself in the mirror on my last day at the barber shop. I unwound my turban, and I thought, what if I just,” and Vijay leans, picks up her scissors, and snips a bit of Nicolò's hair for effect. “So that's what I did. My brother and I were roughly the same size; what luck, that I inherited my breasts from my father’s side of the family,” Nicolò snorts, “so then of course I took his clothes, my father’s tools, my intended wedding jewellery and saris, packed them all in a bedsheet and found the first bullock cart that would take me to Nagapattinam. I’ve been a travelling barber ever since. I live in hope my brother had to clean up all that hair from the shop floor.” She wipes away the lather. “Look at you. A new man.” 

Nicolò absently pats his cheeks. His skin feels smooth, supple. “Thank you. This takes me back to priesthood.”

“The golden days of celibacy. Stay still and lean your head back for me? Good,” she says, starts combing through his hair. He didn’t realise it had gotten to shoulder length. They agree to trim it to his ear lobe. “Do you think me very mercenary? Yusuf did.” 

“He did?”

“Mm. Thought I shouldn’t have left my poor alcoholic father behind.” 

“Yusuf had loving parents,” Nicolò says dryly. 

“That explains it,” Vijay replies, matching his tone. 

“I think you did the right thing, Vijay. You found your vocation. You would’ve been unhappy in marriage, and caused grief to all around you.” 

Vijay nods. “Very true. Though some would argue I do that even now.” 

“I ran away from my parents as well.” 

“Did you? We’re a pair of runaways.” 

“Birds of a feather flock together.” 

“That's a funny phrase,” Vijay says. “Where is it from?” 

“Plato, I think.” 

“Are you trying to impress me? Hasn’t Severino done enough of that for a lifetime?” She dusts his back and neck with her hands, then inspects him from the front. Nicolò tilts his head in a question. She smiles. “Many birds will flock to your church if you ever open one, Father Nicolò.” 

“For God, I should hope.” 

There is a scuffling sound at the ladder, and they turn. Yusuf walks towards them, his white Ihram clothes folded neatly on one arm, looking dumbstruck. 

Vijay looks from him to Nicolò and swiftly turns away. “Ready to visit Al-Juhfah?” she asks breezily, packing up her tools. The process sounds quite noisy. 

“Yes.” Yusuf is staring at Nicolò, eyes darting all over his face. “You cut your hair. You shaved everything.”

Nicolò runs a hand through his hair, suddenly worried that Vijay may have shaved more than she let on. “Yes?”

“You have a—” Yusuf puts a finger to a low point on his right cheek. 

“Blemish,” Nicolò says, as Yusuf completes, “—beauty spot.” Nicolò blushes. 

They accompany Yusuf to the main deck (Nicolò rudely intervenes and climbs the ladder first; he does not need another reminder of Yusuf’s behind) where the other pilgrims are huddled, holding onto their Ihram clothing and waiting as the ship gently bobs in the direction of the shore. Crewmen are yelling instructions at each other, putting down anchors. 

“My scimitars are in your room,” Yusuf reminds Nicolò, for about the fourth time that day. He’s bouncing up and down on his toes.

“I will treat them like my own children,” Nicolò says gravely.

“Thank you. It’s always difficult, this part.” 

Vijay has a thoughtful expression on her face. “If I was a pirate I’d attack now. Imagine coming upon a merchant ship with half its passengers ritually obligated to do no harm—” She stops at Nicolò's glare, and turns to Yusuf, who looks deeply pained. “What?” 

“One is still allowed to defend themselves from certain death.” 

“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “That makes sense.” 

“Though not with weapons,” Yusuf allows. 

Vijay slams her fist into her palm. “But that’s what I meant!”

“If the pirates attack during Ihram, I will protect Yusuf,” Nicolò says. They both look at him. He clears his throat. “And the rest of the ship.”

He stays with Yusuf for a while longer after Vijay has bid them good night. The crewmen are now lowering the ramp onto the dock. 

“—and once we reach Al-Juhfah, we do salat, with two sets of rakat. We then announce our intention to enter Ihram. A pilgrim cannot perform Umrah unless they’ve stated as much at the miqat.” 

“We do that at church, sometimes. Specify the purpose for which we are celebrating mass, or praying.” 

“It’s good,” Yusuf says, nodding. “It’s good to give God and oneself clarity.” 

The pilgrims are beginning to disembark. Yusuf laughs suddenly, looking into Nicolò's face. “You look so different that I’m almost afraid to leave. I don’t know which Nicolò will be waiting for me when I return.”

Nicolò is unsure how to respond. “The same one,” he ends up saying, lamely. Yusuf smiles, raises a hand, and disappears with the crowd.

At this point, Nicolò should rightfully go to sleep, but Yusuf has passed his nerviness to Nicolò like a cold. He paces up and down the main deck instead, climbs to the quarter deck, loops around the captain’s cabin wondering what it is he’s searching for, when he realises, horrified, it’s conversation. He pauses at Vijay and Severino’s rooms: but what if he wakes them? What if they interpret loneliness in his face, and talk to him out of pity? His soul rebels at the idea. Nicolò goes back down to the main deck and loiters around some crewmen for a very long time before he musters the courage to ask if they need help with anything for the next hour. They look confused, but after they ascertain he can read and write, send him to the bookkeeper’s office. Once there, the bookkeeper ascertains that while Nicolò can read and write, he cannot do accounting. So Nicolò sits in the stuffy room twiddling his thumbs, surrounded by the smell of paper, as a tiny bald man uses eyeglasses to peer at a lot of numbers. Yusuf is deft with numbers, Nicolò thinks. He’d be able to sort out these accounts in no time at all. 

Almost as if he has manifested Yusuf by thinking about him, the bookkeeper takes off his eyeglasses and looks upward at the ceiling. There is a distant creaking sound. “That’ll be the pilgrims,” he remarks. Nicolò excuses himself, takes off for the main deck at high speed. 

He leans over the rails and watches the pilgrims return, reciting the Talbiyah prayer. They are in their Ihram clothing, carrying what they wore while going. Nicolò remembers they would’ve changed after taking ghusl, the ritual bath, at the miqat’s cisterns. Climbing up the ramp at night, they look like a friendly mass of ghosts, one indistinguishable from the rest. Where is Yusuf, Nicolò thinks, before his eyes alight on the face he has been searching for. 

Nicolò does not fall overboard, but it is a near thing. 

Yusuf approaches like a vision, glowing, hair matted against his forehead. His face is unlined, at peace. A simple cloth surrounds his waist, falling in clean lines till his shin. Another thin piece is draped over his shoulders, hinting at hard, rounded power. The white is exquisite against his skin, and takes on an almost bluish hue in the moonlight. He steps off the ramp and onto the deck, barefoot, and comes closer. Nicolò can see where his chest hair is still damp from ghusl. It leaves a delicate imprint beneath the cloth.

“You waited for me?” Yusuf asks. He looks happy. Nicolò takes a moment to examine his dimples, more visible now after the trim. He feels clubbed over the head. 

“You did not say,” Nicolò starts accusingly, stops. Tries again. “You told _me_ not to drastically change while you were away.”

Yusuf is puzzled, looks down at himself, then back up at Nicolò. “It is only Ihram clothing.” 

No, Nicolò thinks grimly. It is not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I had like two days of leave from work and tried refiguring the whole plot, the consequence of which is a tentative revision to 17 chapters and the high likelihood of longer chapters. Can you believe the last five chapters have dealt with the events of THREE DAYS? The growth that Nicolo has been forced thru....
> 
> Sincerest gratitude to Reyb18 who continues to bless with their keen eye. And to my sister who played me [this tiktok](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a0-VPE_FZ74) and pointed out that "Put your mask on right!!!!" is Nicolo validating Yusuf's homosexuality, and "Oops...I don't even have my mask on" is Nicolo unable to follow that to its logical conclusion and accept himself.
> 
> Your thoughts and reactions are, as always, my nutrients and sustenance.


	10. Chapter 10

The next few days before they reach Jeddah test the very limits of Nicolò's soul. Yusuf is everywhere, constantly re-adjusting the cloth around his shoulder and exposing the rippling planes of his chest and abdomen. When he sits, the cloth rides up his shin. Nicolò is forced to reckon with the erotic potential of hairy calves. The days that pass are sunny. There is a lot of sweat, and the dimensions of Yusuf’s thighs, behind, and shoulders become known to all. They are impressive dimensions, at least to Nicolò, but less so to Vijay, who is far more impressed with the way Yusuf does not scratch his groin, not once. “His will is made of iron,” she says. 

The next few days are also hectic. Nicolò does not get to speak with Yusuf as much as he would like. Yusuf pads up and down the ship in open leather sandals, relaying updates to the pilgrims from the captain’s cabin on how close they are to Jeddah, coordinating Talbiyah recitals, then rushing off to de-escalate tense conversations before they turn into quarrels and a penalty must be paid for violating Ihram. So far three sheep owe their lives to Yusuf. 

When Nicolò isn’t oiling Yusuf’s scimitars and covertly performing practise drills in his cabin, he reads. Severino is generous with his book collection and lends him a hundred-year-old Bible translated from the original Vulgate. He pronounces it to be a decent read, in case Nicolò did not know, and dismisses all promises to treat the book carefully in good humour. As if Nicolò were putting on a show of humility by pretending to be capable of dropping a book on the floor. Nicolò inhales deeply and departs with the book tucked under his armpit. 

The day before they dock at Jeddah, Nicolò finds a place to sit by the sternside clothesline, shaded by the flutter of his and Yusuf’s breeches. It is noon. The sky is a block of blue without a cloud trail in sight. Faint strains of the Talbiyah recital rise from the main deck below and surround him; he finds it helps focus his attention on reading. Then the recital stops, he resurfaces, and the need to speak with Yusuf comes to him as unexpectedly and ferociously as a hunger pang. Nicolò peers through the rails, spots Yusuf on the sunny side of a mast with a few other pilgrims. Depositing the Bible in his cabin and heading down to the main deck, he goes to the elbow of three tall, curly-haired strangers in white, all of whom turn to him in bewilderment. Yusuf is nowhere to be seen. Gloomily, he retreats to the galley and spends some time terrorising the steward. Evening comes with one last Talbiyah recital, after which everyone has their fill of food and congregates at the lower deck for more conversation. Nicolò is complimented for commandeering pear and pomegranate into the gruel; he shrugs. It was as much for him as anyone else. 

“You know how to cook?” Severino asks, eyes wide. 

Yusuf sits down cross-legged directly beneath a lantern, a perfect hand’s length away from Nicolò as he has been for the entirety of Ihram. It is as if he has sketched a boundary of propriety in his mind around Nicolò's body. It’s exactly what Nicolò asked for, so it is good. It is welcome. “When he and I are on the road, Nicolò takes charge of the stomach. His stews are,” Yusuf kisses the tips of his fingers noisily. Severino and Vijay laugh. The lantern washes Yusuf in a golden light. He makes robes of simple clothes. He looks like a prince. Nicolò thinks of searching for Yusuf and finding a stranger, and suddenly, unaccountably, feels a strong wave of irritation. 

“I don’t even know how to boil water,” Severino says. His face goes glum. “What if I’m ever marooned on an island? How will I survive if I don’t know how to cook?” It is commendable that he is asking these searching questions at the tender age of thirty-five. 

Vijay claps a hand on Severino’s shoulder. “I have no doubt that even on a deserted island, you will find a way,” Severino smiles, “to pay someone to cook for you.”

Severino is outraged by the implication that he pays his way through life. Vijay must be feeling some goodwill, because she indulges him in a long-winded argument. Under the cover of their disagreement, Yusuf turns his head to Nicolò. 

“I missed you,” he says, warmly. “I saw you reading in the afternoon, but when I went to search for you, you had gone.” Oh. “I felt like I was chasing a spectre all day.” He smiles, in that way he does to let Nicolò know he is joking; he does not really think Nicolò is a spectre.

Nicolò has a thousand things he wishes to say. He missed Yusuf too; he was only gone in order to look for Yusuf; he had thought that Yusuf had spared him no thought all day, and to hear that Yusuf did is slightly shocking. The words lie fat and unmoving on his tongue. The moment passes. Yusuf frowns, tilts his head in attention. “Are you all right?” 

“Fine, tired,” Nicolò says, and Vijay says at the same time, “What about you fellows?” 

They turn to her and Severino. “What about us?” asks Yusuf. 

Severino sighs. “Come now, we don’t need to scatter dice for those two. They would surely choose each other.” 

“We’re seeing who each of us would pick, within this group of four, as the only other companion on an unknown island,” Vijay explains, ignoring Severino. “I would pick Severino, because he would have valuable items on his person. The indigenous inhabitants may find these items curious enough that they decide to stay our execution. Severino would pick Nicolò for some reason,” Severino mutters something, “alright, because they’re _like-minded_ , whatever survival value that holds. So, tell us.” She looks at them expectantly. 

Yusuf does not think for long. “Nicolò, for his cooking. Also if I’m to have a chance at hearing my own thoughts.” Severino nods, finding this very fair; Vijay protests that she speaks the least of the four. They all look at Nicolò, who shrugs wordlessly. They laugh. Yusuf adds, winking, “And I suppose I’d be lost without his perpetually displeased face.” More laughter. Nicolò feels hot and cold all at once. 

“You would be fine on your own on any island,” Nicolò says sharply; the laughter dies. “So would I. We’re grown men. We’re self-sufficient.” 

Yusuf says, calmly, “I was only answering what Vijay asked.” 

“Feel free to answer whatever you’d like,” says Nicolò. “Just leave me out of it,” and Yusuf gets up in one swift movement, climbs the ladder to the main deck, and is gone. 

Nicolò stares after Yusuf, then notices Vijay and Severino staring at him. “What?” he demands. “I only asked him to leave me out of his answer.” 

Vijay gives Nicolò a very dirty look. “He wanted to avoid a fight.” 

There is a long silence. “Perhaps you should—” starts Severino, in an unbearably tentative tone, so Nicolò gets up and hurries after Yusuf.

The moon is a pear slice in the sky. As if guiding Nicolò, it casts its beam on the bow of the ship. Yusuf is sitting on the thick bowsprit that extends from the prow, feet dangling over open air. One end of his cloth is passed over the other shoulder like a shawl. Nicolò goes to him. They watch as the ship cuts cleanly through the sea, leaving roiling white foam in its wake. 

“I’m sorry, Yusuf,” he says finally. “I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have, especially during Ihram.”

“What cause did I give you to be angry?” Yusuf asks in polite, even Genoese. 

Nicolò is silent. At length, he asks, “May I sit next to you?” 

Yusuf shifts further along the bowsprit. Nicolò tries to lever himself up, but his hands slip—the thing is damnably round—and then Yusuf’s right hand is gripping his wrist, hauling Nicolò beside him. Nicolò lands heavily on the pole, nearly topples into the sea. Yusuf steadies him, warns, “Balance.” Nicolò swings a leg over the side of the bowsprit and sits astride instead. Not everyone has Yusuf’s balance. 

Yusuf makes to remove his hand; Nicolò holds on fast, covers it with both of his. Says, “Don’t.” Yusuf exhales, looks down into his lap. They are very close to each other. 

When Yusuf speaks, he is contemplative. “There are days when I am certain that you desire me the way I desire you. Mind, soul, body. All of it." Involuntarily, Nicolò's grip on Yusuf’s hand tightens. He had guessed and second-guessed, but he had not guessed this. All of him? “And then you retreat from me, as if repulsed. As if there is a core of you that still believes I am a barbarian, a disgusting pervert. A core of you that is loath to love me without condition.” A brilliant pain streaks across Nicolò's chest. “I am used to conditional love. I swear I would take it from you, if it was all you had to give. But I do not know. I cannot read you.”

This is unacceptable. “Yusuf, the fault does not lie with you. You read me truly. I—I love you without condition. More than I thought I could withstand.” 

A slight tremor runs through Yusuf’s hand; some emotion visibly works its way down the line of his throat. “Then _why_ ,” he says after a moment, turning to Nicolò, eyes shining.

“Where to begin!” Nicolò half-laughs. It is an ugly sound. “Lust curdles love. You would grow tired of me in a fortnight, leave me in a month. To say nothing of the sin. I cannot have God cast me away. I cannot. When I have been at my loneliest, He has been by me. I could not bear to be abandoned by you both.”

Yusuf asks, “Do you think my God has abandoned me?” 

Nicolò shakes his head. “It is not the same.”

“How is it not?” 

“Because you are good. Because you are pure.” It is vital Yusuf know this.

“So are you. I told you, that night. I told you that you are the best man I know. Do you hold my opinion in so little regard?”

“Stop this.” His cheeks burn with the memory of Yusuf holding his face; of Yusuf kissing him. “I was in a pitiful state. You were kind to me. I will remember your kindness for as long as I live.” 

“Kindness,” Yusuf repeats. Then he asks, “When Vijay asked me who I would choose as my companion on the island, did you think I was making fun of—”

“Yes, yes,” Nicolò says quickly. “Please, let us not relive it. It was wrong of me, but I thought you were twisting the blade.”

Silence rolls over them like fog. 

“What are you thinking?” Nicolò asks. He is terrified in a way that makes him feel alive. Every pore of his body is alert, his blood pounds. If Yusuf pushed him into the sea, Nicolò would take off for the distant shore like a flaming projectile, swimming without break. 

“I have spent too many restless nights wondering how you regard me," Yusuf says, slowly, "and not enough wondering how you regard yourself.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

Yusuf’s hand shifts within Nicolò's. Nicolò finally relents; but the hand only curls on top of his, seeking air, like a curious animal. A thumb strokes the point of Nicolò's wrist bone. 

“If I were to debase myself,” Yusuf says, “would you feel pain?” 

“Of course.”

“How much pain?” 

“Is this a medical inquiry?” Nicolò snaps, impatient. “A lot.”

“Can you imagine it?” 

He barely needs to imagine; he felt the cold proof of it when Yusuf called himself a barbarian. A pervert. “Yes.”

Yusuf puts his leg over the bowsprit, turns so that they are face to face. He puts Nicolò's hand over his breastbone, keeps it covered with his own. Nicolò exhales softly and spreads his fingers, lost in the mixed texture of the linen, of Yusuf’s hot palm. 

“You inflict the same pain on me when you refuse to believe my regard for you. When you say my God would welcome me as His servant, but yours would scorn you.” 

Nicolò tears his gaze away from their joined hands, looks into Yusuf’s face. It is difficult. It is like looking squarely at his reflection. 

“Nicolò,” Yusuf says, with finality, “if we are not equals, I don’t know what we are.”

A series of images come to Nicolò's mind with sudden force. An afternoon of leisure and dappled sunlight beneath juniper trees. Yusuf miraculously finding a fig bush on their way to Eilat, in a stretch of land they had thought barren for miles. The slow rise and fall of the sea, as seen from the top of the mizzenmast. A tiny translucent spider, finding its way to safety. He does not know why these should come to mind now, but they make a decision for him. 

Nicolò casts a backward glance over his shoulder to ensure the bow is quite deserted. His heartbeat rages in his ear, and a small swell of panic threatens to rise. He ignores it. Yusuf looks watchful and determined. Braced for a blow.

Nicolò says, in imperious tones, “All right, fine. But I expect you to be as enamoured by me in a millennia as you are now. Nothing less.” Yusuf laughs in surprise, as Nicolò hoped he might. “Swear it.” He is only joking, of course. But he is also not. 

“I swear it!” Yusuf's laughter subsides to a smile. He looks at Nicolò attentively. “So we are in agreement? Truly?” 

Nicolò takes the hand away from Yusuf’s breast, uses it to steady himself as he leans up and presses a kiss to his forehead. Yusuf relaxes completely beneath him, shoulders slumping. He lets out a satisfied sigh. Nicolò pulls away, sits back down. 

He drinks in Yusuf’s face; the twinkling eyes, the happy swell of his cheeks. Nicolò has brought this joy. The idea thrills and scares him. "This will not be easy for me," he says, in another fit of honesty. Yusuf should know, shouldn't he? "You must be patient."

"I will be patient," Yusuf says, deeply serious. "I will be anything for you."

Feeling blessed and boundless, Nicolò reaches for Yusuf again, wishing to replace his hand where it was. 

Yusuf intercepts his hand and brings it down. Nicolò looks at him. 

“Perhaps, ah, after my Umrah is complete,” he says. Nicolò ducks his head, embarrassed. “No, don’t do that,” Yusuf murmurs. “Don’t hide your eyes.”

They get down from the bowsprit, Nicolò first, followed by Yusuf. He takes Nicolò's offered hand and jumps onto the deck with both feet, swaying into Nicolò before stepping away, hands tucked primly behind his back. After a moment, Nicolò knocks his shoulder into Yusuf's. Yusuf smiles. 

“Come, let us show our faces to Vijay and Severino,” he says. “So they know you are forgiven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [:-)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NC7cmWkBoz4&ab_channel=KaceyMusgravesVEVO)Much gratitude as ever to Reyb18 for helping me write Yusuf as the good Muslim man he is.


	11. Chapter 11

Severino, who promised to act as Nicolò's guide, abandons him for a Neapolitan-speaking rare books contact waiting by the bazaar entrance. So Nicolò walks through the archway alone, and right into a solid roar of commerce. Stalls on both sides elbow for space, covered with broad canvas and leaving a strip of hot cracked ground in the middle; a clear incentive as any to stick to the shade, be tempted by beautiful wares. The walkways stretch for what Nicolò guesses is a quarter mile, but the ends are obscured by shifting throngs of buyers and traders, leaving doubt as to their finitude. 

It is a lot to absorb. He is pushed into the nearby utensils section through his own passivity, where he watches a Frenchman wave a leather canteen in the face of a mulish Arab stall-owner. There is something to be said here, about how war stops so men may haggle over canteens. Nicolò misses Yusuf, who would phrase it best and deliver it low into his ear, content with a private audience of one. 

Nicolò risks falling into a trance every time he thinks about last night. This morning over breakfast, Vijay had got Nicolò to grunt in agreement to several untenable positions, foremost that bread does not taste good with olive oil. She then speculated on the cause of his distraction so mercilessly that there was nothing to do but turn red and be silent. Severino had staunchly defended both Nicolò and olive oil. Yusuf was not present to witness Nicolò's disgrace. He and the other pilgrims had set out for Mecca before dawn, almost as soon the ship moored. They will only return after sunset. The bazaar is a good place to while away the time, and perhaps find out where Yusuf’s aunt Ameera lives. And importantly, stay away from Vijay. 

A glassware merchant eyes Nicolò hopefully. Nicolò turns his gaze elsewhere, moves along the stalls. Glass, glass, more glass. He thinks of Yusuf’s palm over his hand over Yusuf’s breast, a thrice-stacked love. What if, his mind compulsively asks, it never happened? What if he were to go to Yusuf’s bed tonight, and Yusuf were to greet him with a friendly backslap and take out a shatranj set? Nicolò supposes he would die. 

He follows the stalls as the wares turn to steel, brass, bronze, eventually graduating to heavy iron works, and finds himself funneled through a narrow gully that opens into a clearing. The clearing is small, ringed with blacksmiths beating away at metal asynchronously in their open-air workshops. There is no haggling or hawking here, just the quiet murmur of questions asked and answered. The sun shines with vengeance to make up for the thinner crowd. Nicolo, somewhat stupidly, left his keffiyeh on the ship. He thinks of Yusuf who is perhaps circling the Kaaba right now with an uncovered head. 

Slowly, he moves from one display board to another. Scimitars have evolved in the past few decades. Less gaudy. A few blade shapes are new to him; one with a recurve, shaping the sword almost into an axe. Leaf-bladed swords, tegha swords. Too front-heavy, too much momentum required for swing. Nicolò gives up on the swords. He stops instead to inspect an oval-headed silver ring, and looks to the smith for permission. The smith, dark and wrinkled as a walnut, kurta sleeves rolled over wiry forearms, glances up from his calligraphy work on a sheath. He nods. Nicolò takes down the ring, holds it up. Wonders how it would look on longer fingers than his. 

After a few moments, the smith gets up from his work table, comes around to stand next to Nicolò. “Something for your beloved?” 

“Yes,” Nicolò says thoughtlessly. He’d be skinned alive if Vijay was here. “But my beloved does a lot of—” two-handed sword fighting, “cooking and cleaning.”

The smith nods in understanding, motions to some necklaces that are less of an obstruction to domestic work. 

“Most men who come here know nothing of their wives’ preferences,” he remarks, when Nicolò decisively puts three necklaces to the side and selects a slim chain. 

Nicolò endures the compliment. “Is this made from chainmail links?” The smith nods again, moves aside a few reference swords on the work table to take out a tray of necklaces in similar style. Nicolò's eye catches on one of the swords uncovered by the movement; black leather sheath with red weaving. 

The smith notices the change in interest. Unsheathing the longsword, he says, “It’s not my work, the design is a bit outdated.” He offers Nicolò the hilt, then turns his attention to another buyer, whose son is peeking at Nicolò from behind the folds of his father’s robes. 

Nicolò takes the longsword he traded for Yusuf’s second favourite scimitar at Eilat, and goes to the side to practise a few basic movements. The son detaches from his father’s waist by slow degrees, watches Nicolò cut through the air. His keffiyeh trails to his ankles. He really is very small. Nicolò had forgotten the scale at which children are built. 

He inclines his head, greets the boy in Arabic. The boy is astonished that the light-eyed Frank should know his language, and says as much out loud. Nicolò asks if he knows how to fight, and the boy tells Nicolo, conspiratorially, that sometimes he stands guard at the kitchen if his mother is making sweet cake; who knows when the jinns may appear and take his portion away. The father meets Nicolò's eyes, gives him the resigned look of all parents. Nicolò shows the boy how to block sweet-toothed jinns. The boy copies the movement so enthusiastically that he trips over his keffiyeh. He scrambles back up, beams, and asks Nicolò to show him again. 

Nicolò spends his evening impatiently checking on the progress of the sun. He decides enough is enough, and hires a horse. The dealer takes a look at his face and throws in a saddle for hard riding. 

The surrounding land is all desert, greyish-green shrubs dotting the low dunes. The road, thankfully, is tar-paved. Nicolò urges his horse onwards, leaning directly over its neck, dust and wind tearing into his eyes. The sun has retreated, the sky is a vivid orange. After an hour riding with the peculiar sensation that he has not moved very far, he sees in the distance the boundary point marked with guards, beyond which only Muslims may set foot. He slowly eases the horse to a trot. Mule carts filled with white-clothed pilgrims roll by. Many crane their necks to look at him. Nicolò tamps down the urge to hide; he needs to be on the lookout for Yusuf. 

Five carts come and go. He scans for bald heads; none are his. His heart sinks. Is it possible he missed Yusuf? A sixth cart is approaching with an extended family; an old man, two men with babies, a woman handling three more children. Nicolò is debating turning the horse around and riding all the way back to Jeddah when the cart halts at his side.

“Nicolò!” 

Nicolò swings the horse towards his name, heart leaping. It’s Yusuf, looking happy and extremely bald. He has risen to his feet, a baby in his arms and no longer hiding his profile. 

Nicolò takes in the curve of his head. It is an aesthetically perfect curve. Sunrise on stained glass. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Nicolò looks around the arid desert and back at Yusuf. “Shopping.” 

“Oh! Did you hear that Zainab?” Yusuf bounces the baby, who is rightfully entranced by Yusuf’s face, and angles her towards Nicolo. “Nicolò's trying to be funny! Say ‘Hello Nicolò, you’re not funny!’” 

Nicolò brings his horse closer, assumes a respectful expression. “Hello, Zainab.”

Zainab turns her big blinking eyes on Nicolò and immediately bursts into tears.

The cart driver finds some rope to tie the horse to the cart. It flicks its tail haughtily and arches its neck, but otherwise bears the indignity of following a mule cart. They make space for Nicolò on the floor of the cart, diagonally opposite Yusuf, who is calming the distressed baby. Nicolò squeezes in. 

Yusuf introduces Nicolò to Ameer, the cart driver, who casts them a friendly glance before getting the mules going; Fatimah, a stout woman with a sweet smile, almost as fair-skinned as Nicolò; Ismail, her husband seated next to Nicolo, who has expressive eyebrows and a beard that goes down to his chest; Sakina, at eight years the eldest of her siblings, a solemn responsibility; Sarina, who is six, and wants everyone to stop accidentally calling her Sakina; little Ismail, who is five, and deeply interested in the contents of his left nostril; Misbah and Mabruka, who are both two years old and uncomfortable with the attention Nicolò is receiving; Ahmed, Fatimah’s aged father, who is snoring peacefully in the back corner—

“—and you are already acquainted with Zainab,” Yusuf says, holding her head protectively as the cart jolts. Zainab bobs around to look at Nicolo, then plants her face in the crook of Yusuf’s neck. 

“She doesn't like strangers,” Ismail says, quite proudly. 

“Except for Yusuf,” Fatimah reminds him. 

“It is impossible not to like Yusuf,” Nicolò says, and the whole cart chimes in agreement, with Sarina agreeing twice in order to be heard. Yusuf gives him a warm, dimpled look over Zainab’s wispy-haired pate. 

The combination of the bald head and the trimmed beard throws his features into a strange harmony. He looks less like a prince now, more like a principled bandit leader. He looks good. Yusuf catches Nicolò staring, waggles his eyebrows. Nicolò focuses on the questions coming their way. This is going to be a very social cart ride. 

“—very proficient at Arabic, I was so surprised,” Fatimah says. “Did you teach him, Yusuf?” 

Yusuf meets Nicolò's eyes, suppresses a smile. “He wouldn’t let me.”

“I learned on my own, before we met,” Nicolò clarifies. 

“I have never seen a pair of more bosom friends! You two must have a long history together,” Ismail declares.

Yusuf coughs. Nicolò slings him a quick warning look, says to Ismail, “We have known each other for long, yes.”

“How did you meet?” Fatimah asks, smacking little Ismail’s hand away from his nose. 

“We—” Yusuf searches for an answer. 

Nicolò goes for a version of the truth. “He saved me from death.” 

Ismail and Fatimah gasp; the older children talk over each other excitedly, begging for details. Misbah starts wailing. Mabruka, not to be outdone, follows suit. Yusuf raises both eyebrows, as if to tell Nicolo, _on your own head be it_. In all this noise, Fatimah’s father rouses and blinks at the sight of Nicolò. 

“Is that a Frank in our cart, Fatimah?” he asks, sleepily. 

“Yes, baba.” 

“Is he trying to kill us?” 

“No, baba.” 

“Hm. Good. Keep an eye on him,” and goes right back to sleep, hands folded over his stomach and mustache fluttering with every snore. 

Fatimah looks embarrassed on her father’s behalf. “It was worse at the bazaar yesterday. I don’t think he knows cultural exchange has evolved since his time.”

“How did Yusuf save you!” Sakina demands.

“Who did he save you from!” Sarina adds.

“How come you don’t smell bad?” asks little Ismail, who has his own agenda. 

“He bathes just like us,” Yusuf says, not helping one bit with the harder questions. 

Nicolò fumbles through a story about him as a young priest being set upon by a group of caravan raiders, only somewhat modified from their recent run-in with the pirates. He must not tell it very well, because the children lose interest, and Misbah and Mabruka go back to squirming lethargically in their parents’ laps. 

“But tell me,” Ismail interrupts, prying Mabruka’s hands from his beard, “how did you go from being a priest to travelling the world with Yusuf?” 

“It took some convincing,” Nicolò lies. If memory serves, it took a few decades, but not very much convincing at all. Yusuf winks, quick as a beat of butterfly wings. Nicolò strategically turns the questioning around. “How did you all meet Yusuf?” 

Fatimah tells a funny story of mistaking Yusuf outside the masjid for her cousin Hassan, whose home they are staying at during their visit to Jeddah. The family is originally from Basra, where Ismail owns a tea business. Yusuf proved his magic with Zainab in this accidental meeting, and then offered to help shepherd the dependents, young and elderly, out of Mecca. Ismail goes dark at the mention of Hassan, who is apparently a disreputable character; he would rather his family had stayed at different lodgings. Fatimah rolls her eyes. A domestic squabble ensues. 

The clouds are purpling. They’re getting close; desert recedes, houses reappear. Nicolò watches Yusuf rock Zainab, who is mostly asleep, though she keeps startling awake from time to time. He noses at her hair, presses an absent kiss to her head. Nicolò tries not to begrudge the comfort of a year-old infant. 

Just then, Yusuf raises his eyes to Nicolò's face. Nicolò leans his head against the sideboard. Holds the gaze. Tries to convey the tenderness he feels for the lines of exhaustion on Yusuf’s face, his swollen feet. His sweet, bald head. 

Yusuf takes his eyes off Nicolò and asks casually, “Are we almost there?” Nicolò turns away, smiles down at the dusty road passing beneath their wheels. 

Fatimah pauses in the middle of her argument. “Any time now, I think.”

Sakina says, quite daringly, “But when I ask the same question, you tell me to hush...” With a quelling look from her mother, she goes back to pretending to sleep. 

The goodbyes take some time (Ismail is bent on securing Nicolò's help in introducing the tea drinking habit to Italians), but eventually they are deposited on a deserted street along with the horse. Stalls have packed up, canvasses have been rolled back, and lanterns now swing from the wooden posts. They wave, and the cart continues on its way to Al-Sabeel. 

Finally alone, Nicolò and Yusuf look at each other. Yusuf starts laughing. Nicolò shakes his head. 

“If you make me talk to anyone else tonight,” he warns. The ability to speak in Genoese again is as satisfying as stretching his legs. He takes the reins of the horse. 

“You could’ve just waited in Jeddah!” 

“No,” Nicolò says, very sure of this. 

“No,” Yusuf agrees. “You missed me too much.” 

“All right,” Nicolò says. “Now get on the horse.” 

“My feet have almost healed.” 

“Indulge me.” 

“Well,” Yusuf says. “When you put it like that.” 

Nicolò's face warms. Yusuf mounts the horse, sits sidesaddle. Nicolò removes his sandals, cradles his naked gritty feet. He looks up, and is nearly knocked backwards by the sheer love on Yusuf’s face. How could he have entertained the idea that last night didn’t happen? 

On a Yusuf-like whim, Nicolò crouches low, presses a swift kiss to one of his ankles. Yusuf’s reaction must travel to the horse, because it whinnies and steps forward. 

“That’s disgusting,” Yusuf says softly, after he has got the horse under control. 

Nicolò shrugs, carries the sandals in one hand, starts leading the horse towards the dealer’s stable with the other. “Not so bad. Not so bad as your new haircut.” 

“Oh, I was waiting for this,” Yusuf said, some of the tiredness falling away, visibly brightening. “I’m surprised you held your tongue as long as you did in the cart.” 

“I showed great restraint.” 

“Really,” Yusuf says. “My impression was that you couldn’t take your eyes off me.” 

Nicolò glares at him and accidentally steps into some camel droppings. 

All the questions Nicolò had longed to ask Yusuf in the cart soon come to his lips. “How was Umrah?” Nicolò asks. “Was it everything you dreamed?”

“Mashallah. Yes.” Yusuf sounds like he’s faraway. “It felt like coming home.” 

“Did you cry?” He guesses Yusuf might have, from the way he described his previous experiences. 

He doesn’t answer immediately. When Nicolò looks up, Yusuf nods once, amused. 

Nicolò frowns. “Forgive me. Should I not have asked?” 

“No, you can. It’s just odd. Once, I would’ve said such things are private.”

“I must be special,” Nicolò says lightly after a moment, looking up at him again. 

Yusuf seems thoughtful. “No, that doesn’t sound right,” and earns a light flick on the knee. 

Nicolò requests more details. Yusuf describes the strong pull of the Kaaba, how time moves differently during circumambulation. He doesn’t mention Multazam, and Nicolò does not press. Yusuf shows Nicolò a clay canteen with a cork stopper tucked into his waist, containing holy water that he had carried during tawaf. The water is from the Zamzam well, the spring that arose from the ground when Hajr ran seven times between the hills of Safa and Marwah in search of water for her parched baby. She prayed to Allah for succour, and Allah heard her. Yusuf brought some back for Nicolò and Ameera. Nicolò is touched, asks if he can drink it, now, in the middle of the street. Yusuf gets down from the horse, guides him by the shoulders to face qibla. He hands the canteen to Nicolo, instructs him to take it in his right hand, pray, and then take three sips. Nicolò makes his prayer carefully, conscious of Yusuf’s eyes on him. 

“Thank you,” he says once done, “though perhaps its healing powers are wasted on me—” Yusuf puts a thumb to the corner of his mouth, blots a drop of water. Nicolò goes mute. 

They return the horse to a testy-looking dealer. Nicolò pays him extra for keeping the stable open late. Yusuf notices that their coin purse looks fatter. They walk to the harbour, and Nicolò tells him about his day with the blacksmith. How he hadn’t foreseen the little boy would bully his father into commissioning a longsword like Nicolò's, and how it led to an accidental commission fee. Yusuf, delighted by the story (“So many children you have charmed today, my Nico!”), thinks this is a sign they’re meant to buy Nicolò's sword back. Nicolò firmly shoots him down. They simply don’t have enough coin for it. Yusuf proposes some new ways of earning coin. It starts with trying their hand at actual mercenary business, and gets increasingly outlandish from there, concluding with a plot to auction off the colour of Nicolò's eyes at a textile dyer symposium. 

Yusuf seems drained again when they reach the harbour, and stumbles over a protruding nail in the boardwalk. Nicolò puts a gentle hand at his elbow, and doesn’t take it away when they resume walking. 

Yusuf notices. His dimple deepens, he waves dismissively. “I’m fine.”

Nicolò takes his hand away. They continue walking. 

Then Yusuf suddenly stops, looks at Nicolò with interest. “Did you just want to touch me?” 

“Yes,” Nicolò says, relieved. 

Yusuf softens. He tugs at the cloth around his shoulder, freeing his forearm, and offers his elbow. Nicolò takes it. 

“I understand. You found a barber in Mecca. They didn’t nick your scalp. They got the job done under budget.”

“Vijay,” Yusuf says, conciliatory, a hand upturned. His other arm is around Nicolò's shoulder. Nicolò doesn’t want this argument to ever end. 

Vijay ignores him. “And now you come to me in the middle of my shatranj game and you say, ‘Vijay, please blend my sideburns into my beard.’ But you don’t ask with respect.”

“I asked with respect!” He looks at Nicolò and Severino for affirmation. Nicolò nods. Severino makes an ambivalent noise, playing to both sides. 

“In any case, you don’t need it.” She sighs, admits, “You actually look fine bald.” Nicolò is privately very satisfied by this. It isn’t just his bias, then. 

Severino multitasks, expounding on the cooling effects of hairlessness on the overworked mind to Yusuf while also losing badly at shatranj. They linger for a short while before Yusuf takes his leave and Nicolò does too, to Vijay’s amusement (“He trekked between mountains in the scorching heat. What’s your excuse?”); but neither Vijay or Severino really look askance at their joint departure, they just go back to playing. Nicolò is still thinking about that when they reach the rooms. 

“Do you think they know?” 

Yusuf is half-leaning against his door. “I don’t follow.” 

“Vijay, Severino, about…” he trails off. 

Yusuf considers this. “No, I don’t think so. But do you think they’d care?” 

Nicolò does not answer. He looks down to where Yusuf’s hand is on the doorknob, then back at Yusuf. The silence shifts. Yusuf straightens as if prodded from behind; his gaze turns serious and attentive. 

“Should we—” he says, as Yusuf says, “Can I—”

They both stop. Yusuf does not smile. He’s nervous, Nicolò realises. The tightness in his chest loosens slightly; something tender worms its way into the gap. 

“You go first,” Nicolò says, slowly, “because I think what I want to say will depend on what you say, and you speak your mind better than I, so. You go first.” 

A small pause. “Can I come to your room tonight?” 

“Yes please,” Nicolò blurts; Yusuf does smile then. “Yes. Wait, no. Can I come to yours?” 

Yusuf searches Nicolò's face. “Of course. Will you give me a quarter hour?” 

Nicolò goes to his room, lights the table lamp, and is prepared to just sit on the corner of his bed and wait for a quarter hour to pass, when it occurs to him that Yusuf is probably bathing and tidying and doing any number of considerate things right now, because he is a considerate individual, unlike Nicolo, though Nicolò would like to be, especially for Yusuf, and also little Ismail’s comment about bad-smelling Franks bothered him, surely Yusuf knows Nicolò is no enemy of the hygienic properties of water, of course he does, Yusuf has seen Nicolò bathe, Nicolò has seen Yusuf bathe; somehow Nicolò finds himself seated once again on the corner of his bed, bathed and in a clean pair of clothes with the taste of tooth powder on his gums and absolutely no recollection of how he got to this state. 

The lamp flame flickers. Nicolò's prayer knot lies on the table, curled up and sedate. 

He goes outside and the corridor is dark and empty and quiet, as if in a dream, and his fist knocks on Yusuf’s door, detached from his body, as if in a dream, and the door creaks open ominously, as if in a dream.

He sees Yusuf. His mind quietens. Nicolò steps inside, Yusuf closes the door behind him. The room is awash in strong golden light. Yusuf is wearing his old rumpled jute tunic; he smells of jasmine. He is entirely too real for the weak fabric of dreams. Already his bald head is darkening with the shadow of hair to come. Nicolò will study the growth of Yusuf’s curls as diligently as a student of astronomy must study the phases of the moon. 

“What are you smiling about?” Yusuf asks warmly, turning from the door.

“Nothing. Only how the moon must be jealous,” Nicolò says, “of the shine on your head.” 

Yusuf steps close so that they are nearly chest to chest. His dark eyes are alive with light, studying Nicolò's face closely. “Did you come here to insult me?” 

“I haven’t decided,” Nicolò says, and exhales like he’s been punched when Yusuf takes hold of Nicolò's wrist and kisses his palm. He noses deeply there, beard scratching at the soft skin inside Nicolò's wrist, then lowers the hand to press light kisses to all five fingertips. 

“So insult me,” Yusuf says. Nicolò hears him as if from a distance. He is marvelling at the feel of Yusuf’s beard, still damp from the bath. Their eyes meet; Yusuf brings the heel of Nicolò's palm to his mouth and bites down with unbelievable reverence. 

“Oh, God,” Nicolò says, shakily, and cannot bring himself to feel shame at having taken the Lord’s name. He is in dire need of some knees; his have vanished. 

“No?” Yusuf asks, lowering their joined hands, twining his fingers through Nicolò's. "Then kiss me.” 

Nicolò does. The kiss is quick and obviously inexpert, but when he pulls away, he sees Yusuf’s eyes have gone heavy-lidded. The sight is gratifying. They kiss again. He shudders at the first touch of Yusuf’s tongue against his mouth, instinctively parts his lips; how natural, how lovely this feels. They kiss deeply, lips shifting in slow, exploratory movements, hands roaming each other’s bodies. Yusuf strokes up and down Nicolò's arms and sides, long deliberate strokes, until Nicolò feels like a clay cast overfull of molten silver. Nicolò squeezes clumsily at the muscles of Yusuf’s lower back, gives up, and just hangs onto his shoulders. He pulls back at some point, starts rubbing his jaw against Yusuf’s beard. Yusuf lets out a quiet groan. They nuzzle each other into a stupor of pleasure, until Nicolò turns his face away in an inexplicable panic, breathing heavily. 

Yusuf leans back. “Are you all right?” he asks, out of breath. His face is quite pink. Nicolò's must be worse.

“Yes—I think—” He has never felt so overstimulated in his life, not even in the thick of battle. 

Yusuf kisses his temple, withdraws from him completely. “Shall we just talk for awhile?” 

“Yes,” Nicolò says, gratefully. “Yes, that would be best.” He looks at the bed. Yusuf follows his gaze.

“I might fall asleep,” he teases, and then shakes his head at Nicolò's torn expression. “If you think I would have rather been sleeping all this while than being with you, you are a senseless man.”

Nicolò is most certainly not senseless. He has all the senses. He may have even grown one or two extra since he stepped into Yusuf’s room. 

“It has been a long day. Maybe you should sleep,” Nicolò says. His blood is buzzing like a wasp. 

“If you think I should, I will,” Yusuf says easily. “But the Nicolò in my dreams does not compare to the one standing before me now.” 

Nicolò looks at him, pained. Yusuf smiles, unrepentant. 

Nicolò gets onto the bed and Yusuf follows. After some hesitation, he lies on his side, head propped up with his left elbow. Yusuf mirrors him, wriggles closer, gaze fixed on a spot on Nicolò's cheek. 

“Are you looking at my blemish?” Nicolò asks. 

“Beauty spot,” Yusuf corrects. 

“You’re very taken by it.” Nicolò is curious. 

“It changes your face,” Yusuf says. “You didn’t have it when you were younger, did you?”

Nicolò shakes his head. 

“I really want to draw it.”

“I’ll sit for you,” Nicolò offers. “I seem to have unwittingly sat for you many times, anyway.” 

“Is that accusation?” Yusuf sounds amused. 

Nicolò tries to shrug. It is somewhat difficult, on his side. “You never show me your book.” 

“I showed you my book!” 

“Once.” 

“You never showed any interest!” 

“I’ve never seen you draw. Where do you find the time?” 

“Early morning. Before you wake up, usually.” 

Nicolò looks at him meaningfully. 

Yusuf laughs. “Fine. Perhaps I assumed you would show no interest.” 

“I am not well-versed in the arts, but I think you are a brilliant artist, Yusuf,” Nicolò says seriously. Yusuf smiles, ducks his head in gratitude. “When I saw that image you made of me reading in the alcove, I knew that moment exactly. You captured, the, the…” He rolls his fingers together, searching for the word.

“The giant book of Plato?” 

“Loneliness,” Nicolò finishes. 

Yusuf considers this. “Few friends?” 

“No friends.” 

Yusuf falls quiet. 

“Surprised?” Nicolò asks, lightly. His heartbeat is quickening. “You may have noticed. I am not a friendly person.” 

“I don’t think I have noticed that,” Yusuf says. 

“You said it yourself. You said I need to be friendly and personable.” 

Yusuf raises his eyebrows. “Ya rab, the memory of a camel.” He softens. “Fine, you are not so open at first. But you make friends. You’re friends with me.” 

“You’re friends with everyone.”

“No, I’m not,” Yusuf says, without heat, in a way that makes Nicolò feel vaguely ashamed. “You’re also friends with Vijay, with Severino—don’t look at me like that, you are. You made friends with that boy at the blacksmith’s today, and everyone in my cart.” 

“Except Zainab,” Nicolò says, after a moment.

Yusuf laughs. “Except Zainab.”

Nicolò smiles. Yusuf reaches across the bed, takes his hand. His fingers stroke along the inside of Nicolò's wrist, sending tendrils of pleasure all the way down to Nicolò's toes. He stares at their hands and thinks about Yusuf’s mouth. It is a warm and giving and generous mouth. It is very like Yusuf himself in these respects.

“What are you thinking about?” Yusuf asks softly. He is disarming when he does this, when he admits he needs help in reading Nicolo.

“When you touched the Multazam,” Nicolò says finally, “what did you wish for?” 

Yusuf counters almost immediately: “When you drank the holy water, what did you pray for?”

They look at each other, a heat growing between them. Nicolò looks away first, swears under his breath. Yusuf laughs, pleased. 

“Ameera is sure to ask you,” Nicolò says, his face warm. 

The smile falls; Yusuf looks troubled. “I know.” 

A few questions from Nicolò to the blacksmith had revealed that Ameera bint Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani, Yusuf’s aunt, is well-known and well-feared in Jeddah. Having taken over her husband’s trading business after his death, she is now a doyenne nearing ninety, and lives in the oldest part of Al-Balad, in the house with the most extravagant courtyard. The blacksmith had heavily hinted that she is unlikely to grant an audience to someone dressed in Nicolò's kind of clothing. 

“What is your plan?” 

“I thought we could make it up as we go.” 

“We?” 

Yusuf looks at him, hopeful. Nicolò groans, collapses onto the bed face-first. 

“Your Arabic is very good now, Nico!” 

“My Arabic is immaterial,” Nicolò says, voice muffled by the mattress, “because I will not be speaking. I can be your mute associate.” 

“You can be my mute associate,” Yusuf reassures him, sounding so relieved and happy that Nicolò lifts his head to see how it translates onto his face. Yusuf kisses him. Nicolò melts, falls back on a pillow, hands linking behind Yusuf’s sturdy neck, Yusuf’s thumb a light pressure on Nicolò's beauty spot. 

“We should sleep,” Nicolò says, when they break apart panting. “We have a day of deception ahead.” 

“Good point,” Yusuf says, and kisses him some more.

They do eventually settle down for sleep, Nicolò suppressing the uneasy excitement of spending a night in someone else's bed. Yusuf puts out the lamps, lies down next to Nicolo, and takes his hand.

“Yusuf,” Nicolò says after a while, into the dark. “I can’t sleep on my back.”

“Sleep however you’d like, my love.” 

Nicolò is silent. He then says, “I want to hold your hand.” 

There is the sound of cloth rustling. Yusuf gently pushes him onto the side and lines himself against Nicolò's back. He slings an arm over Nicolò's stomach, holds his hand. Nicolò closes his eyes. He can feel the warm proof of Yusuf’s breathing on the back of his neck. A vast peace settles over him. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, and Yusuf squeezes his hand in answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Nothing like writing a kiss scene to make you appreciate how DIFFICULT it is to write sex scenes! kudos smut writers, you are god's strongest soldiers.  
> 2\. My deepest thanks to Reyb18, who read the first draft of this chapter and correctly pointed out that there is no way in hell Nicolo waits for Yusuf at Jeddah. if you liked the cart scene, that's all their doing.  
> 3\. Leave your thoughts & comments, or hit me up on tumblr (@theburialofstrawberries), I feed and grow deadlier on praise. See you in 2 weeks. Maybe less. I will be finding and replacing every 'Nicolo' in this fic with 'Nicolò'.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating change to E.

Bandits emerge from the thick woods, teeth shining like wolves. A fish on a spit roasts over the fire, forgotten. The woman-archer nocks three arrows at a time; all three meet their mark. The other slashes men down with her axe like they are millet crop, then goes rigid when a blade finds the gap in her armour. The woman-archer rushes to her side. 

Nicolò, lying on his side, jerks into consciousness. Only a dream, he reminds himself, though his hand goes under the tunic to pat around his stomach. His fingers come away dry. He relaxes, peers at the small circular window. The darkness outside is thinning. It must be close to first light. He looks over his shoulder. Yusuf has drifted away from him during the night. His bald head is slumped, shoulder jostling the chin with every deep breath. Nicolò turns and settles on his back to observe him. 

Even in sleep, Yusuf’s face is expressive. His eyelids flicker, his forehead lines and unlines. A muscle jumps at the crease of his cheek. Perhaps Yusuf is having bad dreams too. There’s a pleasing symmetry there, though of course, Nicolò would prefer that Yusuf only have good dreams. He sidles closer, creating loud friction against the bedsheet in the quiet cabin. Yusuf does not stir. His whole body radiates heat. Nicolò carefully draws up his knees, presses his cold toes against Yusuf’s ankles, gently at first, then petulantly when Yusuf does not wake. 

Wake up, Nicolò thinks. Be with me. 

Yusuf lets out a snore. Nicolò gives up, strokes the satiny slope of Yusuf’s temple with a finger. The place that becomes troubled and veined when Yusuf starts explaining his passions. So many passions. Nicolò runs a light finger along an imagined hairline, sending a non-urgent prayer for speedy hair growth, then down the side of Yusuf’s beard, smooth, then up again, prickly. He repeats this a few times, then rounds the back of Yusuf’s ear. His earlobe is detached, unlike Nicolò’s, and pudding-soft. Further down, to his broad bristly chin. Nicolò remembers how Yusuf had directed Nicolò’s chin with his own; how Nicolò had opened his mouth to Yusuf, again and again. 

Nicolò’s finger rests delicately now over Yusuf’s pink and sleep-swollen lips. Song of Solomon 5:13. _His lips are like lilies dripping with drops of myrrh_ —red lilies, yes, though perhaps not myrrh; on the issue of possessing stale breath in the morning, Yusuf remains reassuringly mortal—

Yusuf draws the pad of his finger in and nips. Nicolò startles. 

His eyes are still closed, but he is awake. Has been, though Nicolò cannot tell for how long. Yusuf releases the finger. The lower row of his teeth is charmingly crooked. Nicolò, blushing, rubs his finger against Yusuf’s bottom lip. Watches it acquire a shine. Yusuf still does not open his eyes. He is encouraging me, Nicolò realises, love flaring in his chest, cock straining against his smallclothes. He runs both hands up and down Yusuf’s chest, rucking up the tunic, and then smooths a hand over Yusuf’s thigh, gripping him hard around the knee. Yusuf makes a low sound, finally opens his eyes. 

The moment blurs. They are suddenly on their sides and clutching each other, Yusuf drinking from Nicolò’s mouth like he has just staggered out of a desert. He breaks away for a moment to shuck off his tunic, and dives right back in; holds Nicolò close by the waist, and expertly slots a thick thigh between Nicolò’s legs. Nicolò blindly pushes forward, fingers splayed in Yusuf’s chest hair, overheated and dizzy with arousal. He feels Yusuf’s hard cock rub at his hip, and moans into Yusuf’s mouth. Yusuf moans back. Like dolphins. A pair of sexually immoral dolphins, calling to one another. 

“Tell me,” Yusuf breathes in Genoese, having felt Nicolò smile. 

“I won’t.” 

“Cruel,” Yusuf says, too distracted to sound truly injured.

In a burst of fondness, Nicolò pulls away to look at him. Yusuf laughs. The laugh converts mid-way into a defeated groan when Nicolò dips his head and mouths at Yusuf’s neck, right where the beard thins out. 

“I would ordinarily be satisfied,” Yusuf says, after a feverish passage of time, “to follow this to a conclusion inside our respective breeches, but my love, I think I must touch you now,” and Nicolò flops onto his back with a deep shiver. Yusuf rises to his elbow. 

Dawn has broken. A golden thread outlines Yusuf’s head, his noble nose, the rounded edges of his shoulder and his hips. Blood rushes high in Nicolò’s ears. He loosens the drawstrings of his breeches, lets his hands fall to the side. Yusuf watches him, gaze dark and hot as oil. Nicolò does not move. Yusuf tilts his head. A shrewd smile spreads across his face. 

He leans over Nicolò, his warm callused hand slipping not, as Nicolò had anticipated, under the breeches, but under the tunic. Nicolò’s stomach collapses; he arches up entirely when Yusuf starts tracing his ribs, his nipples.“Ah, yes, Yusuf that’s, that’s,” Nicolò babbles, developing a range of new sensitivities. When Yusuf lifts the end of his tunic, he says, “Don’t, not that.” Yusuf’s hand stills. “That doesn’t mean _stop,_ ” he says, irritated. Yusuf snorts. He is leaning over Nicolò more fully now, and Nicolò wants all of him. He pulls Yusuf down so they are half-stacked upon each other, and squirms in satisfaction at the weight. There was a moment in battle, long ago, like this. Nicolò had caught Yusuf around the ankle and Yusuf had thrown them both to the ground. Later that night, Nicolò had trudged back to the encampment, caked in mud and blood, fighting not to take himself in hand behind the nearest tree. He had thought it was the natural high of combat. 

Now Yusuf’s hand presses hard against Nicolò’s lower abdomen as if stemming a wound. Nicolò’s hips jerk. He nods at the inquiring look sent his way, then buries his face in Yusuf’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to see. 

Nicolò feels Yusuf take his cock out of his smallclothes and slowly pull down the foreskin. “Mashallah,” Yusuf whispers. He plays with the pooled wetness at the tip, artfully thumbing the slit. Nicolò lets out a ragged breath. Yusuf makes a ring of his hand and slicks the full length of Nicolò’s cock. He pulls his shoulder away from Nicolò, kisses his cheek, the side of his nose. “Your eyes, my love. Don’t hide your eyes,” and Nicolò looks into Yusuf’s face, feeling somewhat crazed. 

“I hardly know how to hide anything from you.” 

Yusuf goes momentarily unfocused; then he says, “Have faith. You refused to share a very amusing thought with me only moments ago.” 

He squeezes the base of Nicolò’s cock, incapacitating Nicolò before he may respond. Copious amounts of Nicolò’s consciousness leak out of his cockhead. The stroking redoubles in slickness and pace. Yusuf moves his lips in a murmur against Nicolò’s temple, hooking his leg around Nicolò’s and pinning it down. The resultant stretch burns across Nicolò’s pelvis. He whimpers, and panic swoops low to meet the pleasure accumulating in his belly. What is Yusuf saying? Nicolò can barely concentrate. He is close, closer than he thought he could reach. But what if he has forgotten how to—

A gap of clarity opens, and Yusuf’s words slip in. He is saying, in quiet fervent Arabic, over and over, “I love you, I love you, by God, how I love you—”

Nicolò pushes Yusuf off just in time to curl onto his side and seal his cock. He spills into his foreskin in small, contained shudders. The world goes away for a little while. 

Eventually, a cloth is passed over his shoulder, and a kiss is pressed to his neck. Nicolò takes the cloth. He pulls his foreskin back and cleans himself. Draws up his smallclothes, tightens his breeches. Then, after discreetly dashing a few tears from his eyes, he wriggles onto his other side. Yusuf is looking at him, rumpled and soft. Nicolò wants to go to sleep atop him. 

Yusuf says lightly, “I thought everything was going well, but that looked fatal.” 

“I’m all right,” Nicolo says, answering the unasked question. He is. Now that he’s caught his breath, he feels rather relaxed.

“Nicolò—”

“I was overwhelmed. Enjoyably, thanks to you.” Yusuf blushes. He ought to make Yusuf blush more often.

“I understand, but I don’t want to overwhelm you. I just want to love you.” 

Nicolò smiles. “Is there a distinction?” 

Yusuf blushes deeper, then quickly regains footing. “Well, next time, will you permit me the honour of disposing your seed?” He gestures at the sticky cloth, now lying in disgrace by the foot of the bed. “My mouth will do a finer job of it.” 

Nicolò laughs, full-throated. He doesn’t remember when he last laughed like this. Neither does Yusuf, going by his expression. “I’ll take it under consideration.”

He rolls Yusuf onto his back, and Yusuf leans up with his plush mouth. Nicolò kisses him once, then pulls away, offering his cheek. Yusuf nuzzles at his beauty spot, making a pleased noise. 

“Nicolò,” he murmurs into Nicolò’s cheek.

Nicolò leans back and looks pointedly at Yusuf’s tented breeches. “We should take care of you.” 

“You sound so duty-bound.” 

Nicolò shrugs. “Life is made of trials and tribulations.”

“Which one am I? A trial or a tribulation?”

“A great tribulation. Now touch yourself,” Nicolò says. Yusuf’s hand disappears at once into his breeches. “No, your other hand. And start slow.”

Yusuf raises his brows, clearly enjoying this. He changes to his left hand as requested. Nicolò presses himself flush against Yusuf’s left side. He runs his hand down the arm that Yusuf is working on his cock, feeling the muscle flex. 

“Show me,” Nicolò says. Yusuf dutifully takes his cock out of his breeches. Nicolò has made peace with its unhooded shape, but only in glimpses—while undressing, dressing, pissing together on opposite sides of a dried-up canal near a fallow field. He has not seen Yusuf’s cock like this. Full-blooded and thick. The ripe plum of its head vanishes and reappears in Yusuf’s fist. 

“To your liking?” Yusuf asks. His voice is rough. His eyes keep flitting to Nicolò’s mouth. 

Nicolò kisses him. In a moment of inspiration, he runs his tongue along the crooked row of Yusuf’s lower teeth. Yusuf shivers; a rumbling sound issues from the back of his throat. His fist moves faster, making a light slapping sound. Nicolò pulls away.

“Good,” he says, turning to look at the motion of Yusuf’s hand. “That’s good.” 

Yusuf says tightly, “Keep looking at me.”

“Mm, you have hinted once or twice that you like my eyes,” Nicolò says, obliging him. He passes a hand through the forest of Yusuf’s chest, and then smooths over the disturbance made. “Why?” 

Yusuf arches under the touch. “They’re beautiful.”

“Try again,” Nicolò says. Yusuf flashes a smile through his exertion. 

“They speak to me. Sometimes without your leave.”

“Do they,” says Nicolò. He leans closer, noting the black lustre of Yusuf’s eyelashes. He is reminded of the kohl sticks he saw on display at a stall the day before. “What are they telling you now?” 

Yusuf pants. “They’re telling me—they’re telling me—” He gets no further. Nicolò cradles Yusuf’s head to his chest and kisses the top of his bald head, holding him in place through the spasms. He is fairly certain he has discovered that as in life, so in bed: Yusuf really, _really_ likes talking and being talked to. After a few moments, Yusuf tilts his head up. They kiss, lightly at first, then deep and serious.

“I need to bathe,” Yusuf explains when his attempts to rise out of bed are met with resistance. He waves a hand over his abdomen where his seed is setting in like mortar. Between that and his approaching prayer time, he has a fair argument. 

Still. Nicolò looks at Yusuf. 

Yusuf winks. “I’ll come back to you.”

Nicolò lets go, and finds the grace of forgiveness when treated to an unobstructed view of Yusuf’s bare behind. 

“Outwardly moral but secretly lecherous, very typical of your kind,” Yusuf admonishes happily, dripping over the drain in the far corner of the cabin. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“You could join me, you know.” 

“I really couldn’t.”

Yusuf sets the basin down on the floor and remarks mournfully, “My lover has made a liar of me to little Ismail.” It’s an obvious bait and almost enough to make Nicolò reconsider, but ultimately, the warm imprint on the bed left by Yusuf’s departure keeps him where he is. 

Yusuf dries himself with the last clean strips of his old turban. This leads them into an important discussion about clothes, and the price of clothes; specifically, ones required to pass as semi-respectable merchants without decimating their coin purse. Yusuf tells Nicolò to leave the bargaining to him, as if Nicolò had plans otherwise, and with a considering look over Nicolò’s body, assumes responsibility for the garment selection too. Nicolò drowsily assents. He falls asleep to the sound of Yusuf performing salat. With the strengthening sunlight, it is an easily disturbed sleep. The first time he wakes, it is to Yusuf adjusting his arm across Nicolò’s chest, pulling Nicolò close. The second time, it is to faint sounds of scratches against paper. Nicolò goes back to sleep, unsure of which side he is sleeping on, but hopeful that Yusuf has at last captured his beauty spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex scene interlude! The spectre of aunt Ameera looms ever close, may she win the battle against my writing block. Cognisant that it's been a while, but little Ismail is the boy on the cart who asks Nicolo if Franks bathe. Much gratitude to Reyb18 as ever. And thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading <3


	13. Chapter 13

The sharp stink of fish pervades the air. A few merchant ships docked overnight, and now Jeddah’s port is filled with hired muscle moving busily about. Unloading crates. Singing. Bumping into each other with loud laughs. Nicolò and Yusuf move through this bright commotion like pallbearers. 

The whole morning had turned on its head. Nicolò had been reluctant to rise out of bed and bathe. The heavy-limbed peace he had felt in the cocoon of shared body heat had dissipated fast, leaving him jittery. He had been sour through his bath and afterwards while dressing, resisting Yusuf’s good-natured teasing and kisses. Yusuf had first been charmed, then apparently taken offense. Nicolò had not wanted to offend him further, and so had waited for Yusuf to speak, except Yusuf had grown colder with the lengthening silence. When they reached the main deck they were among the last to break fast, the steward nervously scraping his cauldron for anything that wasn’t blackened under Nicolò’s gaze. Then Vijay had waved them both over to where she and Severino were aiming date pits into the barrels of a small two-masted passenger ship docked next to theirs. Yusuf had said, “Actually, we were going to the market—” right as Nicolò had held out his hand for the pits. Yusuf had frowned, and then turned away to make small talk with one of the many people on the ship he knew and Nicolò did not. 

Nicolò’s last throw hadn’t even cleared the water, so of course that was the one Yusuf had paid attention to. Vijay had followed the arc of Nicolò’s pit with a whistle, leaning over the rails to watch it plop into murky grey below. She had then called Nicolò kind-hearted for feeding the fish. Severino had looked aghast. Yusuf had let out a short, humourless laugh, and then asked if Nicolò was planning to come with him before the markets closed. 

Now they are passing by the large bureaucratic building of the port authority. Terns call to each other overhead, shrill and harsh. Yusuf pushes the advantage of his longer legs, striding fast, not matching Nicolò’s pace like he usually does. Nicolò slows his stride on purpose. The distance between them grows. Yusuf does not glance back, not even when they pass through the archway. The crowd is already thick. They are late to market. Nicolò feels a pang of guilt that is quickly overpowered by irritation—at Yusuf, at the spice tickling his nostrils, at all this heat. He watches Yusuf deftly give way to a man wheeling a cart of grain and begins to distrust everything that has happened between them. Declarations of love, a day’s separation, and then a night of passion. Hardly original. Street theatre. What they have cannot substitute for a life’s calling (can it?). Individually they are built to last for years and decades and perhaps even centuries, but what they have together has proven as fleeting as, as—a woman’s beauty? The innocence of childhood? Nicolò really ought not to attempt poetry. He does not find women particularly beautiful. Nor childhood so innocent. 

If it were up to him, Nicolò would have liked to spend an uninterrupted day with Yusuf talking about the things on their mind. Their relationship, immortality, God, and whether Yusuf has ever thought of all three at the same time, and if so, how has he not been torn asunder. Nicolò needs tips. Lighter things too, to stave off the gloom. Summer showers, favourite fruits, Yusuf’s drawings. A nice, leisurely conversation, broken occasionally by some nice, leisurely kissing. He had even decided to remove his tunic should they have relations again. 

Well, the tunic stays on, Nicolò thinks, aiming the thought like a date pit at the back of Yusuf’s bald head. Here Nicolò is, tagging along to look Yusuf’s aunt in the face, mere hours after he has had her nephew’s hand on his cock, in the midst of a spiritual crisis no less. And Yusuf acts as if displaying the slightest reluctance at this prospect is as good as breaking a vow. 

A moment or two into his bitter inner monologuing, Nicolò realises he and Yusuf have lost sight of each other. In the literal sense. He stops in his tracks, scans the crowd ahead. Unlike right outside Mecca, where every man is bald, here every third man is bald. It’s only mildly better. Actually, it’s no help at all. Someone bumps into him and Nicolò stumbles a few steps forward. He calls out for Yusuf to no avail. 

Nicolò ducks under the awning of the nearest stall. Heat wafts in waves from a giant pan of boiling oil. The vendor throws a hand over his precious fritters and pulls the spice jars to his chest when Nicolò rounds the back of the stall. Nicolò ignores his squawking and takes a footstool. He goes to the stall front, steps atop the stool for vantage. Still no Yusuf. The vendor has bustled after him, and is now trying to yank his footstool back. Nicolò hops to the ground, folds his hands in a sincere apology. More squawking. He decides to head in the general direction of the garment section. If Yusuf has not noticed yet that Nicolò isn’t following (the thought pierces his heart), that’s where he’s likely to be, unless Yusuf did notice, and turned around—

Another hard bump to his shoulder. Nicolò whirls around, ready to let loose some choice words in Arabic—there’s enough space to his right if someone is so desperate to get through that they cannot wait even an instant—and oh, grazie Dio, it’s Yusuf. Nicolò wilts in relief. Yusuf drops his head, blows out an exaggerated breath. He’s grinning. Love courses hot and sure through Nicolò. They clasp each other's arms, creating a small obstruction in the middle of the walkway, but that’s all right. The commerce will survive. 

Nicolò says, “I was going to the garment section.” 

“I was going back to the archway.” 

“That’s where I was going next.”

Yusuf brow arches with a poetic thought: “We would’ve passed each other many times without ever meeting. Like the sun and the moon, one rising to the sky while the other recedes.” Beautiful. He is beautiful. Nicolò admires the resurgent dimple. 

“I was going to say like idiots, but yes. That as well.” Yusuf laughs. Nicolò squeezes his arms. “All fine?”

“No harm done. Though someone mistook me for that Hassan fellow, Fatimah's cousin, by the spice stalls.” 

“Again? Are you that close to him in likeness?”

“I have no idea.”

“Are you worried he’s ugly?” 

Yusuf gets a look of fond exasperation. They are standing very close to each other. Nicolò is suddenly afraid and thrilled that Yusuf will kiss him, right here in public. 

Yusuf leans in and says, “Ismail’s instincts were right. I was accused of charging interest on loans.” 

Nicolò swallows. “Terrible. I expect better of you.” Yusuf laughs. There is a short silence in which they remember where things stood between them merely minutes before. 

A tender pain flares in Nicolò’s chest. He says, “Forgive me.”

Yusuf’s voice is light. “We say this to each other far too often for my liking.” 

“My mind has been in a tumult since we…” Nicolò’s face warms as he speaks; Yusuf’s face goes soft. His grip on Nicolò’s arms tightens reassuringly. “I slept poorly, I haven’t done my daily prayer. I feel out of order. I’m not a nice man when I feel this way.”

“It’s my fault. When you said you loved me, you asked for patience. I’m taking you to my blood relations as if we were betrothed.” 

Nicolò flushes deeper. The word _betrothed_ is working some strange effect on him. “No, Yusuf. I promised to accompany you. This whole ruse of you pretending to be your own son was my idea in the first place.”

“You haven’t made me do anything I don’t want to.” Yusuf lets go of him. “I’m being childish anyway, I can do this by myself. Give me the coin purse. I’ll be back by evening.” 

He sounds embarrassed. The last time he sounded this embarrassed was the night he had spoken to Nicolò about how much he loved his parents. Nicolò thinks of how relieved Yusuf had been when Nicolò promised to be his mute associate; how cold he had gone, almost as if betrayed, when Nicolò had dragged his feet. Yusuf can do this alone. But should he have to?

Nicolò shakes his head. “I’m coming.” 

A complicated emotion passes through Yusuf’s face; he says, “You’re being difficult.” 

“Yes. I often am.” 

“Nicolò—”

“This is important to you, yes?” 

Yusuf looks at his feet. Nicolò gives him time. 

“I think,” he says, haltingly, “she’s one of the last few people alive who remember Ummi and Abbi the way I do. Maybe the last who loved them the way I did. I really, truly feel as though I’m meant,” he looks up from his feet, “to find a way to talk to her—what? Why do you look so pained, what did I do?” 

“I’m moved,” Nicolò corrects. “You are a good son.” 

Yusuf looks as though he would like to cover his face. 

“Come. Let us go talk to Ameera,” Nicolò says, when Yusuf does not say anything else, and gestures for him to lead the way. 

Yusuf tries to be nonchalant, but the change is apparent. He is lively now, walks next to Nicolò with a spring in his step. He points out different sections of the market and their history, tracing back Jeddah’s emergence as a trading power. He is less knowledgeable about the present and seems conscious of this. He begins to stop here and there, first at a glassware stall, then at one selling spice, inquiring about prices, the status of import and export tax, and how trade flows have shifted with the Eastern and Western Mediterranean cities. The merchants are more than willing to chat with Yusuf. Nicolò and Yusuf learn that it is now common practise for Franks to let Muslim caravans pass through Frankish territory, and for Muslims allow the same with Christian caravans, so long as all parties involved pay a hefty security tax. It is tax that keeps the peace, one merchant claims, popping some fennel seeds in his mouth and chewing vigorously. Salah ah-Din’s military campaigns have little to do with it. He looks around after saying that, as if making sure Salah ah-Din is not within earshot. 

It takes a few tries before Yusuf finds a garment stall he is satisfied with. It is run by a merchant and his young daughter. The merchant immediately takes a shine to Yusuf and his expertise in textile. He has his daughter pull out shimmering rolls of brocade. The fabric looks very nice and exactly like the sort of thing that will leave Yusuf and Nicolò destitute. The daughter looks frankly bored the whole time they are there, but dutifully makes a few noises in her father’s favour when he and Yusuf begin arguing over which of deep blue or green would suit Nicolò’s complexion more. For a while things are leaning green, which is Yusuf’s vote, until maroon enters the race as a dark horse. Yusuf sends Nicolò with an armful of kaftans and anteris to the very back of the stall, where canvas hangs off four wooden posts to form a makeshift changing room. Nicolò tries on everything without complaint. He senses this is important to Yusuf and understands, in general, why clothes are important to people. He appreciates, for instance, that Yusuf’s chosen ensemble—a pale gold fitted tunic with an umber brown robe worn on top, its wide sleeves trimmed with golden-green tiraz bands, and a red sword belt wrapped high around the waist for his scimitars—looks good. The colours bring Yusuf into focus. But Nicolò is not moved, not the way he had been when he saw Yusuf in his plain white Ihram clothing. 

Yusuf prowls in a circle around Nicolò, unreadable, when Nicolò steps out from behind the canvas flap for the fifth or sixth time wearing a white silk salwar (like breeches, but roomier) with an embroidered cerulean blue coat. It wraps tight around his chest and flares from the waist to reach the floor. Nicolò looks at Yusuf expectantly. 

“You’re wearing it wrong,” Yusuf announces suddenly and pushes Nicolò back, entering the cramped room with him. He hangs the flap on the topmost hook. 

Nicolò is about to disagree when he reads the intent on Yusuf’s face. He blushes; his chin moves forward. Yusuf’s nose slots next to his. They kiss slowly, Yusuf tracing the v-shaped cut of Nicolò’s neckline with his fingers and dragging along the soft hollow of Nicolò’s throat. 

“Is it the blue, then?” the merchant’s daughter asks some time later, spreading the salwar on her table and pulling a piece of chalk from her headscarf to mark where the alterations are required. 

Nicolò feels light-headed. “It is the blue.” 

“Didn’t I say!” exclaims the merchant jovially, and claps a pink-cheeked Yusuf on the back. 

It is approaching noon. They have a bit of time before the alterations will be ready. Nicolò leads Yusuf to the blacksmith circle he had visited yesterday. 

“You cannot buy anything,” Nicolò warns again, stepping through the gully. “We are being profligate as it is.” 

“Relax,” Yusuf says, in a tone that does not reassure Nicolò at all. “I only want to see your sword.” 

Nicolò looks at Yusuf. Yusuf groans after a moment.

“Unbelievable. Your mind…” he trails off and shakes his head. 

“Finish the thought,” Nicolò says encouragingly, and has to dodge a shove to the shoulder.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Yusuf says, still smiling. It warms Nicolò all over. “We can be a little profligate. Men with our talents don’t starve. Or at least,” he amends, “we don’t die of starvation.” He looks at Nicolò, raises a brow. “Do we?” 

“We do not,” Nicolò says grimly, thinking of the time he had to stare down a very confused vulture.   
  
  


It gives Nicolò pleasure to see Yusuf drawn in by metalwork. They watch a smith beat a sheet of copper into a bowl. Yusuf keeps glancing at Nicolò in wordless delight as it is happening. Nicolò does not miss the careful way he observes the movements of the smith’s hands. They do a round of the small clearing and survey the wares. Yusuf takes issue with the state of modern scimitars. His problem is less their shape or balance or general killing effectiveness, and more the lack of gold leaf paint on their handles. He and Nicolò then spend a long time over a display of tiny hand-sized daggers, volleying straight-faced comments about ‘swords’ to one another. The smith from the other day greets Nicolò and shows him the progress made on the longsword commission. He greets Yusuf with noticeably less warmth. Nicolò, on a hunch, introduces Yusuf by name. The smith peers into Yusuf’s face and then apologises for mixing him up with a scoundrel who besmirched the honour of some young unmarried women. Nicolò wonders at the range of Hassan’s notoriety. 

At Yusuf’s request, the smith takes out Nicolò’s longsword. Yusuf waggles his eyebrows. Nicolò hides his smile. It is as they thought: too costly at the moment to even consider renting. Nicolò is going to suggest they leave when, unexpectedly, the smith takes out the tray of necklaces. He waves a hand over it. 

“Well, did you decide?” When Nicolò does not respond, he prompts: “The necklace for your beloved?”

Yusuf looks from the necklaces to Nicolò, bewildered and hurt. “The necklace for your beloved?” 

Santa Maria madre di Dio. Nicolò looks at Yusuf meaningfully. “Yes. My beloved.” 

Yusuf’s face clears with comic speed. He beams. “Of course, your beloved, how could I forget. Such a beautiful…curvaceous...womanly...woman!” 

“Is she?” the smith asks. 

“Dazzling lady. Her fish broth brings all the men to the courtyard. Nicolò frequently has to fend them off.”

Nicolò interrupts. “She’s all right. She lost a bit of hair recently.” 

Yusuf gazes soulfully into the middle distance. “Nicolò loves her more than life itself.” 

Nicolò glares. “Less and less so, by the minute.”

The smith sighs. “Such is the waning nature of love.” He falls into a deep reverie.

“Yusuf, do you think my beloved would wear something like this?” Nicolò holds up the slim chain he’d been partial to the other day. It slithers into a heap on Yusuf’s open palm. Yusuf examines it closely. He unclasps it, then clasps it again. Loops the ends between his fingers and holds it to the light. 

“Is this made from chainmail links?” he asks after a moment, a pleased smile on his face. 

Nicolò nods. 

“Pure silver,” the smith says, pulled out of his reverie by the scent of an imminent sale. 

“I think,” Yusuf says, “your beloved would like to wear this very much.”

On the way back to the garment stall, a hint of silver flashing around his neck, Yusuf calls him “my very profligate Nico,” repeatedly and with affection. Nicolò does not protest overmuch. 

It is not technically _a_ ruse. It is a ruse within a ruse. A double ruse. Yusuf cannot simply jump out from behind a shrub and claim he is Ameera’s great nephew. So first, he and Nicolò will pretend to be merchants. 

Yusuf gives his name as Khair al-Kamali at the gate, the kindly Morrocan trader who helped him secure clothes for Ihram. Nicolò, after some thought, gives his name as Nicolò (Yusuf looks like he wants to smile and roll his eyes all at once). They are there to pay respects to Ameera hanim, doyenne of Jeddah. No, just a social call. Yes, they are new in town, returned from a long voyage to Calicut. Yusuf, leveraging all his gossip with the merchants, peppers in enough up-to-date knowledge of trade that he and Nicolò come off as plausible visitors. They are allowed past the gate, through a garden, and to the front door, which is a towering keel arch tiled with white and blue-green starbursts. They pass inspection by the second set of guards and enter—the house? The palace? The heavenly abode whose every square inch is covered with expensive art? 

The sun is now slipping from its zenith. Nicolò and Yusuf are in their fourth waiting room of the day. Nicolò senses the rooms have gotten progressively smaller. Is that a good thing? The sofa they are seated upon is excessively plush. It has as many cushions as a pomegranate has seeds. Behind Yusuf is a latticework window, through which Nicolò spies a mysterious walled structure that is out of bounds for visitors. Yusuf tells him this is the “pleasure garden”. The stepped garden which they walked through to get here, replete with carved marble statues and water falling in serene glass sheets from tiered fountains, is apparently just a regular garden. 

The plan once they get an audience with Ameera is to ease her into the reveal. This will be done with the help of the Zamzam water and Yusuf’s general charm. And if that does not work—well. Nicolò, who has been eyeing the strength and rotation of guards while they’ve been led from room to room, thinks there is a not-insignificant risk of being overpowered if they fight their way through an escape. Better would be to bust through the window and make a run for it, though he would prefer not to damage the latticework. It really is very lovely. 

Yusuf tries to bump them up the queue. He has a lengthy conversation with a servant who is standing by the door with a tray and keeps pushing cool beverages into Yusuf’s hand. Yusuf returns to their sofa with two clay cups of green mango juice and no information on when Ameera will receive them, which means the servant won. Nicolò reaches forward to take his cup and dislodges half a dozen velvet cushions. 

“Are we being…” Nicolò tries to recall the right word from the days his parents would open the palazzo to influential visitors, “snubbed?”

Yusuf shakes his head, unfazed. He takes a stylish sip from his cup. “We’re only here to pay respects, so naturally, we’ve been deprioritised. But not snubbed. We’re not wool traders.” 

Nicolò crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. The silk itches.“What is priority?”

“Profit,” Yusuf says. 

His gaze goes to an important-looking merchant and his retinue discussing something among themselves in low tones. Just then, a dark, beak-nosed man walks into the room. He’s grey-haired but sprightly, dressed in regal robes with two scimitars tied around his waist. Just like Yusuf. The merchant rises to his feet in respect. The man leads him out of the room, sweeping Nicolò and Yusuf with a haughty glance as he does so. 

Nicolò straightens. “Who was that?” 

“Ameera’s right-hand man, the wazir.” Yusuf smiles wryly. “He clocked our new money clothes.” 

“How important is he?” 

“About as important as he is in shatranj.”

“Important, then.”

Yusuf nods. “With the passing of her husband, the wazir should be closer to Ameera’s ear than her own son. If he’s doing his job correctly.” 

There’s something strange about the wazir; Nicolò puts his finger on it. “Is there a reason he’s clean-shaven?”

“Mm, he’s Christian.” 

Nicolò, who has just taken his first tentative sip of the green mango juice, chokes. Yusuf reaches across the surfeit of cushions and pats him on the back. Nicolò checks Yusuf’s face to see if he’s joking. 

“That can’t be right.” 

Yusuf is looking at him interestedly. “The only other clean-shaven man in this entire place is you.”

“But—” Nicolò falls silent. 

“It is not unheard of. We have long integrated Christians into roles of prestige and importance. Doctors, secretaries, public office-holders. Head of military, one time— _very_ contentious decision—”

As Yusuf speaks, Nicolò’s eyes wander once more to the latticework, to the pleasure garden walled away from sight. He thinks of a different life. A life where Yusuf is mortal and raising a family in a home very much like this one. His trading empire prospers, of course. Yusuf has always excelled at accounting and shatranj. His parents are alive and hearty, and dote upon Yusuf’s many grandchildren. His wife is carefully selected, has an excellent head for politics. Yusuf can rely on her. Just as well. Nicolò wouldn’t be a very good wazir. He knows nothing of politics. His parents and brother agreed as much whenever he tried to voice an opinion. 

Yusuf has stopped speaking. “You’re thinking,” he says accusingly. 

Nicolò smiles. “One of us has to.” 

Yusuf scoots closer to him on the sofa, starts batting his knee against Nicolò’s. “Tell me.”

Nicolò hesitates. He opens his mouth to answer when the wazir strides back into the room. Yusuf stills his knee. They are being summoned. 

The wazir looks at them both closely before throwing open the double doors. “You have five minutes with Ameera hanim,” he warns.

“Make sure to maintain eye contact,” Yusuf whispers out the side of his mouth, as they turn and make their way to the centre of the reception room. 

A woman in a black abaya is seated on a ceremonial chair whose legs are carved in the shape of an elephant. They can only see a slice of her profile; she is faced away, listening intently to a secretary murmuring something to her about grain shipments. Then her eyes flash towards them, black and intelligent. Ameera.

“Hanim,” the wazir says, and bows his head. Yusuf does the same. Nicolò copies them both. “Khair al-Kamali and his associate, Nicolò.” 

Ameera nods at the secretary, who takes it as his dismissal. They see her clearly now. A grey silk head-covering frames her face which is overlaid with a lace-like network of wrinkles. Nicolò’s family members used to keel over around the age of fifty, done in by the overconsumption of oils and sugar. Ameera is at a well-preserved eighty, going by Yusuf’s estimate. Her cheeks are high, her chin is strong, her nose is straight and noble. Nicolò thinks at first that her expression is quizzical, then realises her right brow is permanently raised a little above the left. 

She looks so like her nephew that Nicolò wonders how the game has not been given up already.

“Hanim,” the wazir says again. “I have to attend to our business—the contingent from Songhai—”

“About that, Naseer,” Ameera says. Her voice creaks. She takes a sip from a nearby cup. There is a prominent ring on her index finger, silver and fitted with a pinkish-purple stone. “Do try to impress upon them that there is more than one gold trader in the Sahelian region trying to do business with me. They will take it hard. If they prove resistant, lead them out through the west corridor—”

“—and let them sight the contingent from Sijilmassa. Understood.” 

Ameera bestows him with a smile. 

Naseer smiles back, the only remotely human expression Nicolò has seen him make thus far, and takes his leave. The doors swing open—they hear some guards hail Naseer, wishing to speak urgently with him—and then Ameera turns the full force of her attention to Yusuf and Nicolò. 

“Be seated,” she says. 

There is an awkward moment when Yusuf and Nicolò move for the same chair and Nicolò nearly lands in Yusuf’s lap. They leap apart. Nicolò defers. Yusuf sits down, and Nicolò sits in the chair next to him. 

Her gaze passes between both of them. “We already have dealings with a Khair al-Kamali. But you are not him.” 

Nicolò stays silent, and fights to not look at Yusuf who is saying, “Khair is a distant cousin of mine. It has caused confusion before, but he trades in textile, and I trade in spice.”

“I see. I’ve never heard of this other Khair who trades in spice.” 

“It’s a small business,” Yusuf says, ducks his head as if in humility. He smooths his hands up and down his thighs; his tell. Nicolò notes, with some unease, Ameera’s eyes following the movement. “But we have recently returned from Calicut, where we were able to establish new ties. Inshallah, our business will grow.” 

“Inshallah,” Ameera says. “Tell me, how was the cardamom harvest this season?”

“Bountiful,” Yusuf says after a small pause. “The market is soft, not ideal for the farmers, but all those with indigestion may rest easy.”

She smiles. Nicolò’s stomach untwists. He should have a bit more faith in Yusuf’s charm, he thinks, when Naseer bursts in. 

He is flanked by four guards, two on each side with their swords drawn. They are making their way towards Yusuf and Nicolò, who quickly rise to their feet. Yusuf’s hands go to his sword belt. He looks at Nicolò. Nicolò measures the distance to the window. 

“These men are impostors,” Naseer says coldly, striding to Ameera's side. “I have it on good authority that the one who calls himself Khair is a con-man by the name of Hassan.” 

Yusuf looks from him to the guards warily. “Please, there is no need for all this. You are mistaken. What you claim is easily disproved.”

“How so?” Naseer sneers. 

“If you go to Al-Sabeel right now, you will find that Hassan is playing host to his cousin’s family while they undertake Umrah.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because I have been mistaken for Hassan thrice, once yesterday at Mecca by that very cousin, and twice today at the market. Whoever identified me to you as Hassan is wrong.” He sounds aggrieved but sincere. 

Naseer makes a gesture with his hand; the guards halt their advance. 

“We will need to check this,” Naseer says after a moment. 

Yusuf exhales. “By all means.” 

Nicolò is only just beginning to breathe again when Ameera addresses Yusuf. 

“You’re fond of causing confusion, aren’t you?” Her smile is sharp and mocking. She looks at Naseer. “I observed them when you came in. They were expecting a fight. Whoever they are, they are not innocents.” 

Naseer bristles. “Hanim—” Yusuf protests. 

Ameera cuts him off. “Do not speak. From the moment you have stepped foot in this room you have been lying to me. The Western Ghat suffered a blight this year, which you would know if you had returned from Calicut. Soft market, indeed.” She turns to Nicolò. “You, on the other hand.” 

Nicolò regards her steadily. He must not fail Yusuf now. 

“You seem more than a loyal dog,” Ameera continues. “Tell me the truth. Who are you people?” 

“I am Nicolò,” Nicolò says, drawing out the words. He turns to Yusuf, who is watching him fearfully. “And this is Khair—”

“End this farce,” Naseer says, disgusted. 

“—Khair al-Kaysani.” 

Everything stills, except for Ameera, who leans forward in her chair as if she has just received a very interesting report on her grain shipment. 

“Son of Yusuf al-Kaysani, who was lost to you in the fall of Al-Quds, and grandson of Ibrahim, your brother. Khair is your great nephew,” Nicolò adds, in case that was not clear. 

He has a feeling he’s butchered the naming system, but there are more pressing worries at hand. Naseer is the image of rage. He draws his sword and takes two steps forward, ready to strike Nicolò down for his insolence. Yusuf draws his own scimitars and moves to cover Nicolò, his brown robe billowing with the swift motion. The guards fan out, crouching into various fighting stances. Nicolò takes a slow step back towards the east wall. They can still make it to the window, but only if they run _now_ —

“Wait,” Ameera commands. It has the ring of pure authority. 

They wait. For a long, tense moment, she searches Yusuf’s face. He returns her gaze with equal intensity, chin raised. 

Then Ameera's eyes cut away. She instructs the guards and Naseer: “Leave us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you all are the most patient readership ever! thank you for reading, and deepest apologies for the wait time on this one, I swear i'm a chagrined woman. on we go!! my fervent thanks as ever to Reyb18 for their lightning-quick review, as well as to [shortcrust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortcrust/pseuds/shortcrust), who recently wrapped up [this soul-nourishing two-parter](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962949) on booker and nile's growing relationship that is currently my favourite thing in the fandom. she pretty much single-handedly streamlined the focus of the chapter, and besides having all the best advice, also had all the best reactions (when yusuf failed to wheedle some concession out of the servant in the waiting room: "Step 1: Yusuf will use his charm. Failed Step 1.")


End file.
